No Day But Today
by KayMoon24
Summary: Made desperate by depression and repressed shellshock, Steve Rogers decides to take control of his life since The Battle of New York, and tries to find that waitress he saved. Fic contains: fluff, psychological trauma, funnies, dark story line, Peggy, the rest of the Avengers trying to find out what Steve's hiding, awkward romance, accurate historical facts, and 40's slang.
1. Her Name

**AN: **Hullo all! So...it's been a while, hasn't it? Well, congratulations for being so kind to click this because this is the novel length story I've been slaving over during that time period.

You lovely folks seemed to really enjoy my Captain America sections from my other Avengers fic called _"The Strings That Bind Us"_. (And, if you haven't read it, well, forgo my shameless plugging and check it out anyway as my version of Steve may help you see for yourself if I'm worth your time. Chapter One, Two, and Six revolve around Cap.) Well, here's my take of Steve moving on, and getting involved with that certain waitress. Just as a general heads up for story definition sake, I really suggest that you check out that deleted scene between Steve and her in your Avengers DVD extras, or on youtube. (But let's be honest here: we _all_own the DVDS.)

**FIC CONTAINS (new and improved)**: Steve/Beth relationship, as well as Steve dealing with Peggy, as, yes, as noticed in the deleted scene, she is still alive. Will have other Avengers as Steve juggles hiding his normal girlfriend from them and the madness that ensues. There is also **PLOT!**That will take a darker edge. Just also lots of fun, awkward fuzzies And 40's slang. All dat 40's slang. Interestingly, a lot of Steve figuring out who he is beyond the mask, as the rest of the Avengers should as well.

As with all my stories, there are themes. Here are some you folks may look forward to: The perception between love/loss/letting go. Action versus passivity. What defines a normal relationship/finding a connection. One's purpose in life. What one can bring to others outside what is expected. More to follow.

Because, really this story was just_ DYING _to be written: When the Lord and Master Stan Lee turns around from that table and tells Steve Rogers to ask for Beth's number and he doesn't? My oh my.

I wonder what would happen if he changed his mind later?

* * *

The old man's blue eyes clung to him, reprimanding him with the wisdom of a life spent in watching: _Ask for her number, you moron—or you'll survive to see an empty life less lived._

* * *

_"—Glory; Like a sunset, one song to redeem this empty life, Time flies…"_

* * *

Steve doesn't know her name.

He's searching for that particular café in the middle of the destruction site for "The Battle Of New York", and he doesn't know its name either. But he knows that's what he keeps going back into the wasted part of the city for.

At first, it was a little touch-and-go about who could enter the perimeter and who was chased off by megaphones and thick wads of police tape, but Steve manages by. It's no secret that newly formed "super hero" team known as _The Avengers_ are pretty much allowed anywhere they wanted to go, and the persona of Tony Stark, if thesis reporters wanted to get _really _technical, but this was something that Steve felt he had to do on his own. Not as Captain America. Everyone knows Captain America.

No one knows Steve Rogers.

He crosses the yellow and black police tape, lightly pressing the gasoline pedal on his motorcycle less the rev of the engine attract the attention of exhausted ash-stained faces that lurked from police men, S.W.A.T. teams, construction workers and firemen alike; each leaving and returning to the endless burning fire trucks that loitered through the passive turmoil, stretching on for blocks and blocks…

"HEY BUDDY!" A booming megaphone catches Steve's near perfect entrance, and forcing himself not to act like he was caught in a criminal act, Steve slows down. He turns his head to greet the dirty face of a local police officer with messy black hair and the start of five o'clock shadow drizzling down his throat. "Well, well, well—I thought it might've been you."

Steve's blue eyes widened for a moment as the officer recognizes him. It's been happening more and more lately that he has to be more careful about it, but it catches him off guard _every time_. Now, people don't notice him like they do Tony Stark. It's not _that _instantaneous. But every once in a while Steve'll notice someone on the padded seat of the adjacent subway train has been staring at him a little too long, and the soldier would immediately exit the next stop beamed at him from the red letters that flash horizontal from a buzzing box above the sliding doors.

"Hey," Steve says offhandedly, ducking his gaze from the approaching boy in blue.

The man studies him curiously. "So…what's this now, the six or seventh time this month?"

_That you've caught me, sounds about right. _Steve finds himself smirking just enough to make this encounter go faster. "Sorry Officer. I just can't stay away."

The dark-haired fella grins. "Nahn, get on with it then, you've got by enough, and you don't seem like no looter either. Hell, wasn't it you that threw some looters at us the other day?"

Steve hides the swell of anxiousness inside of him, thankful that the officer doesn't recognize Captain America from the news, but still the pit grows. He _did_remove quite a few of those looters not too long ago. "Me? No, no sir I think you're thinking of somebody else." Steve thinks fast and rolls his shoulder for show. "I couldn't do something like that. I hurt my shoulder a while ago."

"Really?" The man raises an eyebrow, revising his picture of the young man's practically perfect physique before him. "Back in 82' when you were first born?" He chuckled.

_No. Back in 1929 when I was a kid and played street ball with a team that probably included your grandfather._

Steve avoided the question. "It's still okay if I—you know?"

The cop nodded. "Oh, sure, sure, we've seen ya enough—anyway, be careful, ya hear? I don't know what you're looking for, but I hope you find it soon enough."

Surprisingly, the snark in Steve's thoughts can offer up no response. "Yes sir."

He takes a sharp turn and weaves his way around large slabs of fallen buildings; grey and white powered debris that still floats through the air makes it hard for him to breathe. He turns out on another empty street, then another, and further still. Steve knows from his previous war that war-zones take time, even though most of the dangerous matter has been packed up, but the police are still weary of allowing pedestrians back into the site. From the latest report that Bruce had updated Steve on, the site wouldn't be deserted for long. Apparently government issued passes were going on insurance deposits that consisted of health-safety remains of smaller shop owners and their employees would slowly be allow in to check for damage and to start rebuilding. Tony seemed interested in this innovation, but Steve's smile soon leveled out into a frown. All the time he had spent wondering the area before the attack, and it feels like Bruce and Tony are discussing the funeral reimbursements of a lost friend.

Would the city choose to remake it like before? Steve wanted to cringe. Did most people really take the time to painstakingly re-create the past, or would it be covered up glossily like a wound, cemented and pressed, never allowed to breathe or even fester?

Certainly Steve didn't want the citizens that took up prior residents living there homeless or jobless forever—but talk of rebuilding ripped a bottomless hole in Steve's stomach. It reminded him of when he first woke up in the "re-creation" of that 1940's hospital wing, façaded and misinterpreted for what the time _was_, and not what it _meant._

Steve's relationship with the city was an odd thing that he kept mostly to himself, because, in all honestly: Steve couldn't explain it. Not to anyone. Certainly not to himself. But something _pulled _him in.

Before the attack he would often walk the entire length of alphabet city, doubleback around to Central Park, jog Fifth Avenue, and, at the end of the night, stand dazzled, misplaced and a little saddened at the blinking beautiful theatrics of every Broadway theater sign. He preferred the city during the day—there were less lights, less chaos along the streets and he felt he could walk into a crowd and disappear—from himself, from the world, from everyone—and he wouldn't matter anymore. It was the only time he felt he could be a part of something, the spiking wave of fast-paced pedestrian footfall from immigrants to the wealthy alike that had walked the same pavement from 1910 to 2013. It was perhaps the last familiarity that New York held for him. He had to adjust to that idea—the trollies were subway trains, Wi-Fi had replaced the majority of the radio broadcasting, books were now inside electronic hand-held screens called smart phones. He had to rebuild the entire handmade brick walled universe from his childhood, his adolescence, into a nightmare made out of neon and chrome.

He didn't stop trying, however.

He told himself he couldn't live in fear. Or, at least, he certainly couldn't show it.**  
**  
So he scoured out what comfort he could find. The public libraries were still in their ancient spots. Joe's boxing arena from the 30's, gritty and dusty, still somehow managed to hold itself into management. Brooklyn, for the most part, still looked just as hard pressed and forlorn as it had from Steve's last memory of it, but yet nothing was left of the shops from his boyhood. Not a single newspaper stand, or picture show, or toyshop. His previous apartment building had been replaced with a shopping outlet, and so he had to find rent in the next best thing: an apartment just south of his past.

It was only when he kept moving that he felt the faintest trace of home. When he stopped, it was as if he wasn't alive anymore. Frozen. Like the lion statues outside of the public library that roared at him with weather stained teeth, emplaced wide eyes that reflected blindness, far past their prime. Steve ran his fingers over the stone of their manes every time he rented a book. He spent a lot of time in there, carrying books back and forth from his living room back to the lions' den. He loved to read—and in a virtual world of invisible connection and isolated headphones, Steve poured over the print, the ink, and explored every dead end detail about World War 2—fleeting over soldiers' names and generals.

At the suggestion of S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve moved on to other major events in U.S. History that stopped any peculiar questions that would slip from the soldier's mouth, such as the 1960's civil rights movements, the rise of terrorism from 89' to 9/11, and the daunting advancement in technology. As hard as he tried, he slammed cover after cover shut over the ladder; he didn't understand computers, nor much of "HD" television sets, or cordless telephones, or mobiles, apple i-somethings or tablets. He didn't need to know, and frankly, didn't want to know.

He didn't understand the American obsession with identity in such a transient, anti-palpable way. Facehead? Tweeter? What happened to physical expression like letters or face to face conversation? Why would he ever set up information about himself for the whole world to see? The last thing this planet needed was another egotist like Stark. But Steve was soon discovering that 'ego' seemed to be the top goal of this new world. People walked around with white buds in their ears that drowned out human speech, fingers aching over mini-computers and cellular phones that sent off impersonal code and messaged to family members down the street. Steve didn't want to admit to seeing all the apathy to the people of the 21st century. It seemed that only huge events shook them to look up from themselves and at the city around them, but it never lasted long. Only those profoundly affected erected memorials, news watches, editorials. The rest of the world moved on with the pages of their monthly calendars, rolled into passing and soon people found themselves bored with staring into the dust that kicked up over the Battle of New York. Once it settled, no one looked back.

Everyone born into the present wanted complete disconnection from one another. From the city, from the social public, the media. The city was all Steve felt he had left and now…

Now they were going to changed everything again. Had too.

Steve told himself that it was a sign that he had to change as well. Although, even as he walked away from Tony and Bruce's debates about architectural design for the disaster site, Steve didn't see much of a point for serving coffee and barter clothes and broken chain watches to fearful ghosts that wouldn't bother to look in the general direction of where the battle took place.

Steve Rogers shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He senses a decent place to park near the smolder of a thin potted tree and leans his bike against it, stepping off to brush the ash from his hair and face. The tops of these buildings got the worse of the front—the sidewalks broken and stony. The thick panes of the reflective metropolitan glass reflect dully out against the only breathing soul for miles—and Steve finds that he can't stand there for long, feeling silly that the only man that's following him is himself. He picks a direction to walk in and closes his eyes:

"_Get your phones here—practically free phones here—_" An echo of a street vender calls to him in the back of his mind as he slowly drenches the steps through his memory, searching…

What was he looking for back then? His brows puzzle, and the thought of the café shifts into his memory. The clock that he was trying to draw as he sat there—and—and her. He can picture her so clearly, even after everything that's happened, and he has no idea why. It wasn't her he was looking for. It was the clock _behind _her. Time. It was time he wanted to watch.

But God, why wouldn't she leave him alone now? All he can fathom is that he doesn't know her name.

_She even wore a nametag Rogers_, Steve thinks to himself, jaw hardening. _A nametag!_

_"Buy some time! Buy some time here people!"_

Time.

Steve sighs as his eye catches the faint shimmer of the tapestry from the café just outside the cave-in of Grand Central Station. He stands before it, the only malleable matter amongst flipped chairs, crushed tables, and wrecked lounge area. He approaches the large window, cracked raw down the middle, and looks inside to find nothing but darkness. He feels strangely tricked—like someone had broken a long lost promise to him and lured him out for nothing.

Steve's shoulders rose and fell with a bitter chuckle. Of course. Of course there's nothing here. What was he thinking? That he'd come back here and—what, _she'd _just show up? Why? What is the point? He drums his knuckles over the glass as he turns away. He sighs again. Time. Looking around himself, he feels like that's all he has, and yet all he's been stripped of.

* * *

Steve stands there until night unfurls slowly across New York City, dimming the blue shadows of the caved in buildings and haphazard ruins of shops into a soft, smoother comfort on the eyes. When a brilliant flash of a white causes Steve's iris's to react—he blinks, startled, and notices the distinct ache in his legs. He glances around quickly to find himself alone as he was when he first arrived. There's no old men playing chess. There's no pigeons fighting for bits of bread, no chatter of distant customers drinking coffee at nearby tables, and certainly there's no young waitress staring at him shyly from beyond the shop window.

Steve clears his throat as he cranes his head to take in the remains of the Grand Central Terminal above him. The archangels that protected the golden clock are broken hard shards of ruined craftsmanship. It's well past ten at night.

_Waiting on the big guy?_ The waitress had asked him, her voice vibrant and visceral as the sting from a slap to the face. _Iron Man?_

"No," Steve replies out loud, his voice firm. He pauses and it takes him a few tries to continue. "I…I don't know what I'm waiting for anymore."

_Well, that table's yours as long as you like_, She had smiled at him, long curling honey-coloured hair resting gently over the orange of her blouse, the sparkle of blush on her cheek, the smooth pink-soft lining of her lips. _Nobody's waiting on it._

Steve's nostrils flare in resentment of himself. He can recall everything she said, even her clothes, but Heaven forbid he ever asked for her name.

_Plus, we've got free wireless_, She added delightfully, moving on from him, her light blue eyes kind and warm.

_I can't believe I asked 'radio'_, Steve chagrins internally, resetting himself back into neutral. But still. It was almost as if she heard him—and she didn't laugh. But she looked back, her teeth politely resting as she moved—and…Steve doesn't know why that it means so much that she _looked back_. But he can't stop it. He can't stop the rush of action he feels. He has to do something. He has to find out—about her? About why he's moving back towards the ruin café that gave him nothing but a place to draw and some over-priced coffee to sip?

The air turns moist and heavy around him. Churning the night, he continues to stare at the empty blocks until he senses there's a wetness around him, soaking into his boots. Rain. He sighs as he walks aimlessly to his bike. _Well_, Steve thinks as he buttons up his jacket. At least there_ are two things that haven't changed in over 70 years. Rain and God._

The wind from the gush of rain picks up as it pelts off the shiny metal of his motorcycle, crying silver and black on to the ashy swollen streets. A shiver runs through Steve's body causing his fingers to shake over the handle bars, nearly causing him to lose control. The rain pounds him, and even with his enhanced vision, he already knows that he couldn't fight his way back to Tony's. He grips the bars tighter in startling anger.

Maybe he didn't want to go back there anyway.

He turns his bike slowly towards a bent street sign that's pointing back towards an old burrow district of New York, and he takes off for it. Fury had kept him out of his apartment long enough. It's time he paid a visit.

* * *

"And then-–no need to endure anymore!…Time dies…" -"One Song: Glory"; Roger, _RENT_


	2. Goodbye, Love

_"I'll call…"_

* * *

When Steve finally is competent of it, he finds himself sitting on the hard oak of his desk chair, every inch of him wet and shivering.

He notices his fingers twisting nervously around the cradle of the phone hook. He picks up the receiver and holds it to his ear, letting the dial tone echo into his thoughts until he can hardly stand _hearing_ anymore. He drops it back on the hook. Turns away. He opens the drawer beneath the top layer of the oak desk and closes his eyes as he runs his fingers over the files that contain all the lives of the people he's ever known. He even knows what order they're in. Colonel Chester Phillips. Howard Stark. James "Bucky" Barnes…_P—_He gasps, his fists curling around the papers.

God.

Now they're reduced to pictures and words that'll never be enough to Steve.

He pulls them out, fingers carefully shifting his friends, straightening through each one as if they're newly laid in his hands and he hasn't read them over hundreds of times before, hasn't practically fallen asleep with them clutched to his chest. It was kind of Director Fury to scour God knows where to find the local and private information of Steve's past world. Because that's what it is now; a different place, a different universe. He flings the folders across his desk and pitches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Now that he thinks about it, it was probably the _only _kind thing Nick Fury has ever done for him.

Peggy's picture slides out from her manila folder when the files land and it catches Steve off guard when he moves his hand from his face, pierced by the no-nonsense of her stare; his heart drops, and he can't breathe. His shivering increases tenfold, and the room feels strangely small, closing in—forcing him to stare straight at the phone, less the walls impale him.

It's not the right time—he _knows_ it's not the right time to do this—but…he _needs _someone. He needs to hear someone. Anyone.

_No_, the voice deep inside whispers.

No, Steve repeats inside his mind, wrists crumpling the paper.

He needs to hear _her._

Steve clings onto the memory that even now she can sense when he needs direction. When he needs her. He finds that to be enough of a sign. She's waiting for him.

"Okay," Steve huffs, bracing himself, knuckles borne white as he pulls at his short hair. "Okay. I'll do it."

He lingers over the phone before he gently picks it up, slowly, as if he'd turn it around too fast and it'd poison the blood in his veins before he decides its safe enough to rest his head against. He meets her black and white stare again, his mouth dry. "But only for you, Peg." He tells her in a whisper.

Carefully, he dials her number listed off from her file in the cordless phone.

"Hullo?" The harsh crackle of an older gentleman's voice hits Steve like a one-two punch, and for a second, the room spins—a thousand reasons rushing to his mind that overwhelm him—_she's recently passed and he's baring her calls, she's sick and he's taking care of her, she's married and he's—_

"Hullo?" The voice snaps again, this time more distant. His accent is ostentatiously British, his tone clipped. Steve forces himself to speak.

"Hello—sir, I want—I wanted to check and see if Margaret Carter still lived here?"

"Wo't? Margaret? Lad, you got any idea what _time _it is here?"

_Time. _Steve swallows the word down like a shot of whiskey and it burns inside of his brain and turns as murky as the ashes from the café he had stared at for so long. Time. What does time matter now? Steve almost believes that time doesn't exist anymore. Time. What does anything matter now? It's all so clear to him. He almost wants to laugh, and, amazingly, he responds: "I don't think I know what time means anymore, honestly."

There's a bit of a silence on the other end. Finally, the old voice slowly responds: "Are you drunk, yah idiot?"

Steve finds himself involuntarily grinning, full of spite for himself. "I can't get drunk, sir."

"Son, listen to me. You're obviously not from around here so I'll fill you in. It's three o'clock in the bloody mornin', and frankly I don't care who you are. I'm hanging up. Don't call again."

Peggy's eyes bore into him, and he can nearly taste the ruby of her lipstick on his lips. This snaps Steve to his purpose. "Wait! Sir—I'm sorry. Please wait."

"Don't tell me this is some kind of wonky prank call, boy!"

"No," Steve murmurs back quietly, "No, not at all. It's just…could you answer me a few questions?"

"Didn't you hear me—I _said _it's…ah, never mind. Sure. Well, Maybe. Depends. Who's this again?"

"Is Peggy still living there—with you?" saying 'With you' nearly kills Steve, but somehow he's managed it. The line crackles and Steve presses his ear harder into the receiver, not missing a second.

"Yeah—n'd she's doing well." The elder man measures out slowly with a careful, suspicious tone.

Steve collects himself for a moment, staring at her picture's eyes, wondering if they're just as beautiful and sparklingly dark as they were back in 1942. "Is…is she happy?"

"Happy?" The voice repeats back irritably. "Sure. Sure she's happy. She smiles and gardens and things. She's pretty content."

Hearing those words brings Steve a cascade of relief—but he's pretty sure that it shouldn't feel like it's _bleeding _out of him. When the soldier doesn't respond the old man bites into the pause:

"This over?"

Steve's throat is pinhole tight, and his ear hurts from how hard he's clutching the phone.

"One more thing," he says lowly. On the other end, the old man seems to fall into a weary silence. A somber moment of patience passes between them as Steve tries to hold himself together.

"Could you possibly tell her something, you know, from me, for her?" He fumbles hopelessly. He's practiced this since he woke up in the fop-1940's bedroom that S.H.I.E.L.D pulled on him. But suddenly he's using it up, unraveling his thoughts, his feelings, and he always imagined talking to _her _while doing it. Maybe it's easier this way, but Steve feels himself losing touch with his dignity. Tears form in his eyes, but he hides it in his voice when he asks.

"I would lad, but ya see, the problem being is that I don't rightly know who you are."

Once more, Steve ignores the man's question for identity. It doesn't matter now. It's too late. Steve feels himself falling apart inside—a slight trickle of his existence that kept him sane for the few months he's been awake in 21st century is gone. It's too late. It's always been—too late.

"Please sir, tell her that I'm sorry that I missed our date." Steve says slowly, numbly. "Please tell her that, and I promise you'll never hear my voice again." Steve pulls himself away from the phone, his entire body aching from the stress. It's nearly on the desk now, leaning away from him. Only Steve's super sensitive hearing keeps the conversation stable.

"You promise, huh?" The old gentleman manages something that sounds like a laugh, but could have been a cough. "Alright. I'll tell her. What's your name again, lad?"

"Thank you," Steve whispers, unsure if the man on the other side of the world can hear him. Certainly he'd hear him just as well as any of Steve's other friends from the past.

"Hullo?" The man's voice upturns curiously, and the line crackles. Steve reaches across the sanded gloss over his desk and grabs at the box that has the power to connect him to anyone in the world, and yet he only wants _one_ person, and _that was it_. He holds his breath in tightly, his fingers slowly feeling its ridges and electrical outlets before he smashes it to the wood floor beneath him. The line goes dead.

The chair under him starts rattling as Steve braces himself to stand—but he can't find his footing, and he stumbles to the closest thing he can find—an armchair with a white sheet over it, flaked with dust from the time he's spent at Stark Tower. He sinks into it, curling up around himself, feeling the very earth trembling beneath him, the dust pushing against every hair on his arms, his body—he closes his eyes tight and takes a deep breath, fists balled into the starch white sterile sheets, the emptiness of his apartment, of his life.

In over 70 years, Steve Rogers allows himself to weep; to _mourn_ once he's wrapped in the dust of his past, the twilight of his future, and the soft, buzzing cry of a dial tone that will never, ever, leave his mind.

* * *

"…I hate the fall." –"Goodbye Love", Roger, _RENT_

* * *

_Maybe leave a review to tell me if you all are enjoying so far? Just a few tiny words?_

*edited 6/16/13 due to a guest comment about my screw up of Steve's "sleep" period in years. Fixed. c:

_**AN:** _Well that was depressing. Hurm. Thank you to all who are enjoying. It means more than you know.


	3. Meeting, again

"Without you, the ground thaws, the rain falls, the grass grows," – "Without You", Mimi, _RENT_

* * *

"Rogers, I gotta say: I didn't think you _actually_ slept. Ever." A dark feminine voice lingers into his ears, unmistakable.

"Natasha," Steve mumbles, easing himself up, but she's already there, her dark emerald eyes boring into him—right in his face, in fact. She's kneeling on eyelevel as he lies on his back in the chair. He blinks into the stale metal sunlight that sneaks through his blinds. "How'd you get in here?"

The auburn in her hair seemed to smolder in the morning light, glittering as she lifted her shoulders and pursed her lips in contently. "You really think you can hide from me, Rogers?"

"Nat, you know I'm not hiding anywhere." Steve sniffed, crossing his arms. Natasha smiled quickly at him, trying to reassure, trying to believe him, but she had already given a quick sweep of the apartment while Steve was sleeping and found it practically as forlorn and uninhabited as the room that Steve regularly stayed in at the Tower.

"Of course," Natasha's eyes lowered. She had guessed this was coming for a while now. Steve had become more and more withdrawn, and spending a lot of reported time in the Devastations Sites from most S.H.I.E.L.D reports. _You're hiding in plain sight._ She noticed the flipped wooden chair, the cracks in the oak of the glossed desk, and a photo of a dark haired woman with a relentless stare that she could admire. She lithely stretched up and casually walked to the desk, fingers sliding over the photo. From the corner of her eye, Steve jumped as if he was stung.

He was at her side in an instant, a large hand overtaking the desk and covering up the photo. She raised a red eyebrow at his wide, almost frightened looking blue eyes. He studied her just as evenly, and her look said it all: _Got your attention now?_

"Natasha, why are you here?"

"We just wanted to make sure you were okay. It's not like you usually stay out all night, Steve."

_It's not like I go much out all, I get it._ Steve thought to himself. "We?"

She turned to bestow on him a quizzical look. "You know, the rest of the people that you happen to share a giant glowing tower with? I think even Tony looked a little concerned."

"Oh, well if that's the case, I see why S.H.I.E.L.D. sounded the alarms."

"Steve," Natasha paused seriously, her emerald eyes slightly shocked at his tone. "I'm not here because of—"

"I know," Steve broke in, his eyebrows furrowed. His jaw clenched and unclenched itself over and over, trying to calm himself down. "I'm sorry. I just—didn't expect you."

The spy edged out his emotion carefully in her head. She added anger to the room, painted it with stress and frustration and, strangely, she saw that Steve's only phone jack box strained, ripped from its means in the wall.

"Phone trouble?" She tried to reason, her tongue lightly offering the suggestion to hide how much weight she could see it held.

Steve didn't even bother to acknowledge it. "Something like that. Look, I'm sorry if I caused any trouble. I'll head back to Tony's soon."

"If you want." She shot him a considering look. "This is your home too."

Steve glances around himself as if just noticing for the first time that he _could _stay here, but he disallows himself to even remotely entertain the thought of it.

"Yeah," He adds slowly. "I don't see Director Fury appreciating that."

"But you would." Natasha cuts to the quick, as she always does, and it suddenly becomes Steve turns to look at her in shock. She shrugs nonchalantly at him. "Barton and I like to get away sometimes. Even away from S.H.I.E.L.D." Her verdant green eyes dig into him. "Why shouldn't you?"

Steve swallows. _Because I want that…but Captain America —the embodiment of heroics and leadership—can't. How would that look knowing that I want to live as a hermit for rest of my life, only coming out to help save the world. What if the public found out?_

"I guess I'm afraid that if I stayed here. I'd—I'd never leave." There. Close enough to what he wanted to actually say to her.

Natasha's jade eyes catch in the dusty morning light, and she moves fluidly from room to room. There's only about four to his entire apartment—living room, bathroom, bedroom, kitchen. It's small—covered in wood, the smell of shoe polish. All the furniture is slightly cool to the touch, not a scratch on them. She runs her fingers over a bookshelf, catching the titles of _World War 2, Iraq, Afghanistan, 1950-1970's a brief history of USA events._ She pauses over a dimmed, torn embroider cover of _I'm Okay, You're okay_, and finds distaste for the churn of uneasiness that grows in her stomach."Steve, you're a curious man. I don't think any place could hold you for long." She decides to avoid the topic of discussing Self-Help books. "You'll get out there. It just takes time."

"Yeah, so I've been told." Steve says wornly. He sighs out through his nose, before pulling an expression that he _prays_ is a pleasant expression to his lips. A smile hinges on tightly just for her. "I'm sorry if I caused the gang to worry."

She raises a red eyebrow at him. "A lot may have changed in 70 years Steve, but you're still changing too. You're turning out to be quite the troublemaker when you're not suited up."

Steve flushes at her words, flowing through one ear and out the other as heavy and smoky as Bucky's back in 1942—_Stay out of trouble, you hear me?—_"Nah. I've never been any good for myself."

Suddenly Natasha is beside him again, leaning against the armchair so that their arms are touching cotton to cotton. "You're good for a lot of people, Steve. Maybe more than you even know." Her eyes fall over the framed picture again—and the young brunette woman's eyes stare at her without fail. She pulls away, her shoes light and airy as a cat's across the floor. "Anyhow, I just wanted to check in. Pepper is dying to get out of the Tower, so we're heading around the city today." She meets Steve eyes again when her hand meets the doorknob.

"I know," Steve shifts where he stands. "I'll call you later, Nat."

"That wasn't what I was going to say." Natasha called lightly, half way out the frame of his door.

Steve chuckles faintly at her tone, bewildered that for one moment he thought he knew what Black Widow had planned next. "Care to enlighten me then?"

"The woman in that frame of yours—the one in your bedroom? She's pretty."

Steve grits his teeth into a smile before grasping up the file and slamming it back into the drawer where it had sat for nearly half a year now. "Don't remind me," He mutters as the door slams.

He pauses, forcing a deep breath through his nose before exhaling. He leans the chair back into place and rips the dusty sheets off the rest of the furniture. Before he knows it, he's at the threshold of his own front door. He laces up his boots, tugs on his still damp jacket from the night before, and flexes his fingers as he sizes up the door.

His hand is on the knob, hands nearly shaking before the striking blue gaze of the old man from long ago opens in the back of his mind, lonely, rueful, depressed—and Steve realizes that he's imagining _himself._

He grips the cold silver knob hard and throws open his door to face the still empty streets since the attack. _That is it. Get ahold of yourself, Rogers. You're alive. It's a God blessed miracle you're even breathing, and you can't spend the rest of your life acting like you don't want to be a part of it all._ He tells himself. _You called her, and you know damn well she's not going to call back. And what if she does? She won't want you now—maybe—maybe she never wanted you. She had her whole life and you missed it. You missed every breath and every smile and every date in a 365 year calendar you could have been with her. So just get to it._

Slowly, a boot is laid out the door, and the New York air rattles the thin window panes of his old apartment building, thick crumbling bricks still defending against the city after so many years, and after the beating of an alien race. He slowly closes the door behind him, rattling the wood. He shoves the desk out of his mind, but he can't let go of her face. So, like the old man in the back of his mind, he closes Peggy's dark longing eyes, and, finally, tries to open his own.

The sun is shimmering against the slightly chilly wind today. He'd have to go back to Stark Tower soon. But he wants to do something different; something that he'd never imagine himself doing without a lot of moxie to pay. And it hits him like a smack on the forehead.

He'd go back to that café—no, not just that café—_any_ café—and he wouldn't wait any longer. He had to find her, that waitress.

He had to.

* * *

_"…The earth turns, the sun burns, but I die, without you."—"Without You", Mimi, RENT  
_


	4. Trading Masks

**AN: **Gosh guys, thank you SO very much for the follows and favourites. I hope it's going swell. Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays. c:

* * *

_"Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?"_

* * *

The 33rd café north side of fifth street is a cab drive away from the center of Stark Tower, and the whole time Steve feels the icy buildings wide set eyes digging into him. He puts his back to it however, allowing himself only the faintest of self-conscious twitches from his thumbs as he walks. It takes him less than twenty minutes to decide if she's there or not between cafés—although, he could be lying optimistically to himself. There could be a thousand reasons for her to actually be at one of his dismissed cafés. She's sick, or maybe she's just not on schedule that day. Maybe she quit waitressing all together and fled the city like so many. But Steve presses on without a backwards glance, the doubts dissipating like the moister of his breath on the air.

The throaty roar of his motorcycle raced through downtown, midtown, east, west, and twists across Time Square multiple times. Steve disregards the gentle layering cresting blue ice over the sidewalks, the bright sparkles of Christmas lights strewing across the already glowing behemoth of New York. He stared at them before, trying to prepare himself for the holidays, but it feels so fleeting compared to now.

The frosty morning that he'd forced himself into leaked slowly into the late afternoon chill of lunch time shoppers and soon Steve had to park and go about his search on foot. He had to keep himself from sprinting around the whole massive maze of a city, and pressed his patience walking with the normal pace of New York foot traffic as he studied café to café. Two more went by without any luck. Then a sixth. Soon a seventh—although one did have a young blonde server about it back in 44th street, but Steve knew in an instant she wasn't the woman he was looking for.

He closed his eyes briefly as he walked, keeping perfect pace and timing with the chatter and noise of the cars and people close around him. It could picture her so well he felt he might even be able to draw her sometime, if the nerve finally struck him.

She was slender with a kind face and light blue eyes. Her lips held an unsure, cute smile, and she was probably about 5'4 or so. She looked real nice in her pink blouse, and her nails were clear, no glitter, or paste applied to them. Her makeup was naturally demure, her hair long and golden, held by a few pins tossed into a half-ponytail. He could imagine and recreate—but always, always her name was blurred as it hung from the nametag. That he could never simply make up for himself.

Hours passed as he walked, blurring and fading nearly as fast as Steve's confidence. Eventually he stumbled onto a bench near Central Park and let his head fall into his hands. Even when he was a kid he just tried way too hard for things that weren't meant to be. Sure, sneaking into the army was a stupid death wish, but it was _his _stupid death wish, his purpose, his calling.

But that was all gone now. Or at least, it wasn't anything he could be permitted back into. But Steve figures it wouldn't be the same anyhow.

He strained his eyes into the wintery clouded sky and watched the wind stir the brittle branches above him, spinning towards the earth below.

What was calling him now?

Would finding this stranger of a girl really bring all that much into his life besides bitterness and frustration?

* * *

Steve finds himself standing near some damp café outside of China Town, not feeling the numbing push of the wind snaking up his jacket. He's lost count and location now. It's all the same.

* * *

Next he's standing outside a bar, but he turns away, jaded_. You couldn't even pretend be to drunk if you wanted too,_ Steve chides himself. _You're something awful of a lair, especially to yourself.  
_  
He sighs, his feet like led in his boots before he twists away again, letting the depression and delusions of grandeur fuel like a poison into his veins. Time and time again he'd do this to himself.

What can't he just give it up? Why can't he just quit like everyone else? He doesn't have to put on the show now. He doesn't have to be the perilous leader Captain America out of the suit. He's only leading himself into psychiatric help or a slight obsessive compulsive habit.

He hutches up his shoulders and just looks at the ground beneath him, seeing nothing, just letting his feet go where they'd like. A railing soon trails just to the side of his vision and he glances up to find himself outside the patio of a restaurant called _Salto Della Fede_. He swallows drily, and thinks about the irony of being thirsty from wondering from diner to diner before he stops and just watches the pairs of couples lunching outside.

Tinges of grey from the misty cooling sunshine flaking off into an old woman's hair as she smiles at her date. There's a kid on his cordless phone, free hand intertwining with his girlfriend that Steve wants to snort at. The whole diner is brighter than the lights of the city in festivity—warm sweaters, hands, hearts. Flashes of youth and colour. Steve's revulsion softens looking over them—soon the action is broken up by their waitress retrieving their bill. He starts to turn away but suddenly he can't move.

From the corner of his eye he sees wheat-yellow hair and his heart stops dead. His superb eyesight zeros in—but the woman turns away, her hair twirling behind her.

_Give up? _A quiet voice in Steve's head asks him.

Steve thinks hard but his eyes can't leave her. _No. No. No. This…isn't…_

His blue eyes trace across the crowd, desperate for more, but it's no use. He'd have to get in closer. He slows down, turning on his heel as he moves against the flow of shoppers gushing from 49th, nearly knocking down a large woman with six full _Macy _shopping bags before he makes it to the outdoor sitting area of the café. He stops, narrowly avoiding more people as he leans himself against the patio's railing, turning his head to just barely glance the girl again.

Her eyes are blue—light blue, and her eyebrows and lipstick is just the same. Her complexion is perhaps a little paler, and she looks more rundown than the last time he had seen her, but then again, everyone had been more carefree before the Battle—but _Oh God_, Steve's chest tightens painfully, his heart running wild as he finds himself turned fully around just _staring _at her.

Because it's her. Dear Lord, it's _her._

Steve Rogers ignores the nibbling of doubt in the back of his mind as he forces himself to calmly walk the rest of the rail way like any other normal American male and not bound over the knee high perimeter of the outdoors dining area. The breeze flourishes up the hanging cloth drapery of the café sign as he enters, walking straight for her. But she's moving away quickly, dashing inwards and 'neath the shadow of the doorway—disappearing with empty dishes and teacups.

"Wait!" He spurs his lungs to expand harder, and suddenly he's loping over the ground faster than most short distance Olympic sprinters. "I've been looking for you everywhere." He feels like he's screaming the words, but he's actually just muttering them to himself in fervor—two full tables turn to stare at him.

Steve digs his heels in and discreetly strides into a fast paced walk as he avoids the eyes and he ducks around the patio area of the _Salto Della Fede _café. He barely aware of practically anyone else in the lunch time rush as he chooses a wicker seat at random and sits down, knees still humming with anticipation. Discreetly he folds up a menu and chides himself for acting like he honestly has the outrageous nerve to gander at her from table to table. His fingers leave prints on the plastic casing of the listings and the letters jumble around before his eyes.

_I can't believe I'm doing this. This is—illegal, or completely nuts. There's something wrong with me._ A loud voice in Steve's head sets him straight. _Get up and walk away right now. You're goin' look like some creep—you're going to—_

Steve freezes as the waitress comes near for the first time. Steve turns his head slowly, trying for a smooth sweep at catching her name—his eyes gandering as discreetly over her blouse as he can before she dips the cloth over the small round tables, clearing the dishes and glasses with a satisfying clink. Steve continues to follow her—but she's moving far too quickly that even with his enhanced vision he can barely make out the wobble of one letter at a time as the flimsy pen holds her memory in place in his mind. He's completely captivated for her name—on the other hand, however, the waitress takes consideration out of the corner of her eye, and how she can't seem to escape the explicit stare of a young patron at a table just a way from her. She glances at him quickly—he's young, possibly even handsome—but never the less, her face scrunches in hidden frustration.

Since moving to New York, and since the Battle Of New York, she's gotten use to the unexpected, and the expected—like the other, not-so-young regulars that hang around the café and stare at her friends' chests. She coils her hands hard around the silverware in her aprons pouch, steadying her nerves.  
_  
_She turns, knowing that regardless she has to serve him. The waitress bites the side of her cheek when she notices that the young man in front of her is _still _squinting at her chest, and decides to leave it alone and do her job—telling herself to maybe take it as a compliment, but she finds she only wants to laugh at the idea. That makes her smile. She shifts her hair from her shoulder and the tips of her nails make contact with the sharp edge of her nametag the pinned cloth there out of habit as she approaches quickly; she's so ready to get this over with. "Can I… help you?"

Steve reels at her response as if he wasn't aware of just how hard he was staring at her blouse this whole time. "Sorry!" He snaps to attention again, red lining the bridge of his nose. "Yes—I'm sorry. That was…that wasn't very polite of me. I—I was looking for your—ah," _name _"—attention."

A second inches by as her yellow eyebrows rise, and the soldier realises she waiting for more. _More? _Steve cringes, sweat forming on the back of his neck. He forces himself to choose the first item off the menu in front of him.

"May I have the—" He pales as he realizes that the word is completely foreign to his tongue. "Shake'a-er-toe?"

Her lips part slightly at him, her blue eyes alertly suspicious. "Is that a question, or do you actually want it?"

Steve nods as if he wasn't shrinking to the size of an ant inside. "Yes. Yes, I'll have that."

"Right," She says carefully, still keeping the pleasantry to her tone. The scratching of her pencil against the yellow paper is loud in Steve's ears. "Would you like a meal to go with that?"

Steve's mind goes blank. "That wasn't a meal?"

Her lips widen into a smile, and she laughs. "No, _shakerato _is a specialty drink—you know, coffee. Starbucks kind of quality except it's real, and served in a cocktail glass. I'd recommend it. Ever since that new James Bond film has come out it's been a local favourite."

Steve shifts in his seat, feeling suddenly too out of place. He quickly flips through his recent memory of pop-culture that he's been trying to pick up from Clint, but he draws a complete blank over whoever James Bond is. He sets his teeth into a smile and prays that she doesn't notice how clueless he feels.

"I can only imagine," _Literally. _"But, no thank you, I'm fine. I'll just have the drink."

"Okay," She breathes an internal sigh of relief at the strange man before her. "It'll be out in a jiffy."

The off-white of her apron turns as she trails away, but suddenly the young man twitches—and his next few words seem like a knee-jerk reaction, like an invisible person had kicked him from under the table._  
_  
"I'm Steve, ma'am," Steve's mouth turns into a near grin but it feels funny, like it is stuck for some reason, or rather like he's never tried it before. The waitress, only a few steps away, turns back towards him. Steve sticks out his hand for a handshake to which the woman before him seems all the more confused by. Slowly, she reaches out and grasps his large hand in the space between her fingers and awkwardly pulls it downward for a moment before letting go.

_Hm,_ She thinks to herself, lips pursing thoughtfully. _Maybe he's just wants some company? _She freezes again. She's seen this happen before. _Oh. Oh no. Maybe…maybe he's lost someone in the attack. _She'd seen the lost and the desperate linger around the area, chatting up local retailers for the sake of hearing someone else's voice, someone else to acknowledge them. She flexes her smile a bit wider.

She knows that feeling.

She knows what it's like to awake in the dead of night in a cold sweat. To clutch your pillow so hard that you want it to both suffocate and protect you, but you know it can't. Nothing can protect you now—except for the Avengers, maybe. Except for maybe Captain America. She thanked him—she was so grateful in her shock. She was still grateful after. But everything was so different now. People were different. The whole city shook in sudden dependency for something _greater _to hold it together. Beth could sense it. But she was just one person, and she had to go on like everyone else. It didn't stop her from listening to the roar of the winds through the hurting city—to grasp hope in crawling to find the remote, but find you can't turn the T.V. on. You're overwhelmed at the silence. Your head spins, but no sickness can make this feeling leave you. You're crying out just like everyone else—and in the morning, you'll put on makeup, or fix up your hair and you'll pretend like your anxiety attack didn't happen.

She blinked, smiled back at Steve.

The attack has left her just as lost as the people she tries to serve._**  
**_  
"Beth—just in case the name on my shirt isn't what I hope it is." The waitress reaches up to tug at the thin plate as if she wanted to check herself, but didn't have the nerve to look down. Now it was Rogers chance to return a bemused look. Noticing, the blonde continued: "Last week I accidentally took my friend Ronda's tag—and let me tell you, it was the _weirdest _feeling to be called by a different name all day long."

Steve chucked softly, glancing down at the small round table before him, and Beth found herself taking just one step closer than she normally did to her usual orders. She had made him laugh—which, frankly, after everything that had been happening to her lately, she was glad to find a piece of herself again. She prided herself in letting her self-deprecating humor make other peoples' day. It certainly made her's. Besides, her shift had been slow today, and most conversation was as stale as the doughnuts inside the shop.

Beth's hand flexed nervously over her pen as she held up the notepad for the gentlemen's order, already feeling as if she'd said too much nonsense, but, as if the universe just wanted to spite her, the curious blue eyes of the man before her humored her further. He asks a question that almost allowed Beth to feel like he was actually interested. "Couldn't you have just traded it back?"

"I could have—but where's the fun in that?" She wipes her hands in the folds of her apron and the drizzles from her wheat-shimmering hair fall in the process. "Besides—I just take orders from strangers all day. What does it matter if my name is right or not? Sometimes it's thrilling. " Her light blue eyes switched to stare into Steve's before dropping themselves back to her notepad, and she feels as if she couldn't have said anything more petty.

_Right,_ Beth regrets internally. _And this is why you stopped trying to do small talk. Your talk isn't small. It's just stupid. What does this poor man care about any of that? He's probably…probably…_

Steve's mouth twitched briefly. "Is that so?"

"Completely! It's the little things, I guess, that get us through the day here." Beth's pink smile tugged at the side of her mouth. "Just kind of routine."

Steve's fingers fiddle with the edge of the menu before they come to a still over the way she said routine—a little soft and sad. "Routine?"

"Ah—I suppose I mean that it's just something light to look forward too. I mean, it's just one of those things that comes with the job." She flicks the nametag again, her blue eyes joking. "Our own version of trading secret identities."

Steve pauses, his eyes tight on her, wondering.

Internally cringing, Beth brings the conversation to a close before she rushes off to another table.

"Trying to cheer up customers with a smile."

Steve leans forward and shifts the menu into her palm before he decides to smile himself. It's a small smile, one that's kind of twisted and confused, because frankly he's feels so uncomfortable he could leap up and bound the length of fifth avenue before anyone know otherwise, but still he stays. He notices how her eyes widen as he smiles at her, and he wonders for a second if his grin isn't Steve Rogers grin. He closes his lips into a frown, and Beth just continues to eye him timidly before she turns away, rushing to another table.

Finally, when she enters into the café with the rest of her orders, Steve allows himself to rest his head on the edge of the table, grateful that he doesn't have the will to bonk his forehead against it, lest it snap in two. He's already in trouble enough.

* * *

"...Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?" - "Will I?", Entire Cast, _RENT_


	5. Iced Coffee?

**AN:** Thanks again everyone. c:

* * *

"The heart may freeze or it can burn."

* * *

"There ya go," Beth's voice doesn't catch Steve unawares, as he's been listening for strictly her voice for the past seven minutes. The tray in her hand shines waxy and silver, the _shakerato _slandering near center, but intact. She reached up artfully and plopped the drink down, not spilling a drop and obviously proud of herself.

Steve studied it carefully, noticing it's off-brown colour. "Shaker-toe, huh?"

"_Shakerato_," Beth smiled. "For the most adventurous of coffee lovers." She quipped. She tapped her fingernail along the table lightly. "Or so says the menu."

He wrapped his fingers around the glass, feeling the beads of liquid attack his skin with a fury of frozen, chilly formations.

"Ah—it's _cold?!_" He nearly fumbled not to drop the glass. Beth tried not to laugh at his over the top reaction. It was as if he'd never touched anything like it before.

"Well, of course, it's an iced coffee."

Steve stared at her. "_Iced _coffee? Doesn't that defeat the point of coffee in the first place?"

Beth leaned curiously closer to him, her blue eyes humorous and surprised. "You've never had iced coffee before?"

Steve tried to think fast but the _iced _coffee kept spinning his logic away. _This was really a thing now? What?_ "No, I um, don't really try new things," He chuckled halfheartedly. "I guess that's a bit obvious."

"Well, no day like today, right?" Beth corrected the tilt of the glass. "Maybe you'd like it. You never know."

The ice cubes in the miserable looking coffee clinked together like the snap from the jaws of a beast, but Steve wrapped his fingers around its throat again. _No day like today, right? _He told himself unsurely, stealing the phrase from her vocabulary. He took a leisurely sip as Beth turned away for the table closest to Steve's, clearing away a plate. Suddenly, with her not watching, he can't taste what he just ordered.

"Beth, right?" Steve asks his drink.

She turned back, ears perked, already knowing just what to say. "Is something wrong? If you don't like it, I'll be happy to bring you something else."

Steve swallowed, taste buds bombarded this time. Yup. It tasted pretty awful, and _freezing_, but he managed through. Bucky's cooking was way worse. He glanced up at her. Back to the drink. Back to her before he found that he was turning into some kinda creep again.

"What's your favourite drink here?" Steve inquired_. Tactful, Original, _he spat sarcastically at himself.

Beth tried not to smile while she watched her strange patron's brows furrowed as if he had asked her a more philosophical question like _is the likability of your drink preference in relation to predetermination, or pop culture icon?  
_  
"Hmm," Beth responded without missing a beat. "Probably the plain glass of water. It has a refreshingly clean finish." She smiled at her own joke before she added more seriously. "I'm not honestly the biggest specialty coffee fan, if you want to know the truth."

"Really? That's surprising considering how fast paced this joint is." He thumbed casually to the two full tables that had gawked at him before, thankful to lead her eyesight away from him for a moment.

"Have you been in New York long, Steve? The whole city is brimming with pace." She raised her eyebrows playfully.

Her words caught Steve's deepest nerve to stare at her without feeling like a complete schmuck, but the way she said his name—just his name—in full consideration for _Steve Rogers _for just a second. His throat instantly began to dry and he tried another slip of his drink, honestly grateful that he had something more acceptable to put in his mouth, say, beyond his own foot.

From another table a few previous customers called loudly for their refills.

"Right—well, duty calls." Beth allowed. "Lemme know if you need anything else, okay?"

"Thanks," Steve nodded, head like a steel trap.**  
**

* * *

This time she didn't come back for over fifteen minutes and Steve tried not to feel ancy about why. He distracted himself by people watching—although, all the couples only make his nerves tense out more. He tried to drink more from his glass before he felt practically numb inside from the cold; the ice kept smashing into his teeth, smarting his jaw. One of his legs bounced restlessly. _God, this is such a mess_. He stated to himself.

He slapped at the pockets to his pants wondering for a pen to draw on a napkin with when Beth's voice caused his head to jerk up so quickly that he nearly shook the table. The glass teetered dangerously and they both reached for it at once, clasping hands over the cool glass. The warmth of Steve's hand pressed against her's made the soldier's heart twist so violently that he was the first one to pull back.

Beth tried to smooth over their sudden contact. "Fast reflexes, Steve." Her lips pursed softly. "Say, you weren't a waiter before, were you?"

"A waiter, me? Oh no, believe me, that'd be a sorry sight." _I did preform a bit though. Which was also an equally sorry sight._

"Well, what do you do?"

Steve could feel his confidence breaking into brittle pieces that lay at the bottom of his stomach. _Civilian relations are frowned upon_, Fury's voice had stated. Loud, and very loud.

"I…" Steve glanced at his arms, at his jacket for help, and the muscles there lit up his lie. "I am a physical trainer for boxing leagues—but uh, it's only a part-time deal. I was a soldier once, though." _There. Not too shabby, Rogers. Normal folks need normal jobs._

Beth's expression rearranged itself from cheerful to pensive and back to inquisitive. Her light blue eyes tightened though, something shadowy lancing through them. "Oh my God, a _soldier?_"

Steve's smile turned sheepish. "I just got back from a long leave." He swallowed dryly, trying not to stare at the ice in his drink. Dear Lord, he _hated _the cold. "Before you—you asked if I was new to New York, well, actually, I meant to tell you no. I've lived here my whole life. I'm from Brooklyn."

Beth took her time answering, mainly because it was the most she had gotten out of her customer in nearly half an hour. She reached across the table and patted his hand. "Well, it's been an honour to be your waitress, soldier Steve." She picked up his glass and began to walk back towards the café. "And...welcome home."

Steve could feel himself beaming red but he shrugged it off as he watched her disappear. "Home." He whispered sadly. "I wish it were that simple."_  
_

* * *

It continued this way for quite some time that day. Between ten to twenty minute intervals, Beth could walk over and check on Steve—and exchange what conversation they could during those brief visits. Before she left for the seventh time, Steve got the nerve to ask her for a spare pen. Beth handed it over quickly, but scurried away after that, thoughts buzzing that for some odd, ridiculous notion, this man might be taking the long way around and give her his number—but she scolded herself quickly and got lost in the hustle from inside the café.

From between catching her visceral, blonde image from the glass in the café windows, Steve practiced drawing her as best he could—hiding the inked napkins in the front pocket of his jacket when she returned to chat.

Perhaps it was weird; their strange verbal dance of talking tongues and smiling teeth, but it passed the time. Hours stripped away like this until, finally, Steve glanced up from drawing to notice that he was the only one still sitting in the chilling evening air outside. Inside the warm wooden café walls he heard people talking and silverware clinking, but he couldn't bring himself to move inside. He had been waiting for anything before, but now.

Well, now he was waiting for Beth.

* * *

Beth's friend Ronda gave her a glare when she enters through the cafe's back door for her evening shift, already finding Beth wiggling herself into a worn blue jacket with white wool cuffs along the edges, frayed and a little discoloured.

"In a hurry, Princess Buttercup?"

"Ha, ha," Beth's voice was muffled. "It's cold, is all." Finally, she popped her head through the top.

"You really need to get yourself some buttons that aren't stuck together."

"I love you too, Ron."

"Seriously! Girl, it's nearly Christmas! Go _wild!_ Buy yourself a better jacket. Hell, _I'll _do it for you. I'll buy you clothes that aren't from Nebraska."

"Oklahoma?" Beth quirked her lips into a playful scowl at her best friend.

"Wherever the hell you're from." Ronda snapped back, equally kidding. It had been a running joke for two years now that Ronda wasn't found of any place that wasn't the Big Apple. Plus, she was from Queens—with bleached hair, a small nose ring, and an entire tattoo sleeve of different Broadway shows on her left arm. That's how her and Beth met in the first place. Musicals were the ties that bind them. Plus, her living only a block down from Beth's own apartment made for an easy, strong friendship.

Ronda's dark brows contrasted with her white hair as they rose, and her nostrils flaring when she sees Beth tying back on her apron. "Overtime?"

Beth smiled at her faintly. "Just one last table. Tell Max I'll be out of his hair soon."

* * *

Steve leaned back in his chair and stared at the dark evening sapphire sky that was gliding its way over the buildings of New York, probably held up by its skyscrapers. Or punctured by it.

When Beth came out for the final time it takes a while for Steve to realize that she's changed. She has a jacket on now. She has a purse. And now she's no longer flitting at the edge of a table. She's pulled a chair out and is sitting across from him. By the time he's figured all this out, they're deep into a conversation about, of all things, baseball. Her father had gotten her interested in the sport after her older brother had left for college. But, all that time and Steve can't help but glance this way and that, trying not to let his worrisome nature show. Is she really leaving, or he is just causing her trouble?

After a while, Beth notices that her patron's startlingly blue eyes are fighting between keeping polite contact with her own, or staring just into a space just above her shoulder. Beth turns, her blonde hair falling with the movement, out of curiosity.

"What're you staring at?"

"Huh?" Steve perks up; his eyes instantaneously searching her face in vain panic before he edges out awkwardly. "Ah—well, Beth, as much as I enjoy chatting with you, I just happened to notice that you haven't um, left to tend to a table in a while, and I was just worried that I might be keeping you from your job."

"Oh," Relief fills the young woman's tone and Steve tries not to puzzle his expression over it. "Well, I've been off the clock for about an hour now." She smiles a careful smile at him, grading his reaction, and Steve tries to peel the shock off of his face in a timely manner.

"You have?"

"Yeah," Beth reveals her smile a tad bigger at the look on Steve's face. "Is that okay?"

Steve is stunned into silence.

Beth's brilliant blue eyes caress over him for a moment before she smiles again—just a small one that makes Steve wish he could up and vanish into thin air. She shifts the thin handle of her purse from hand to hand. "This might sound completely out of nowhere, but um, I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get some coffee sometime? Like, actual coffee. Not cold."

Steve freezes, heart shoved between the space of his roof of his mouth and his bottom teeth, already blocking all the phrases that are rushing for his brain. Civilian interaction is frowned upon. The war taught him, S.H.I.E.L.D. instates. _She could get hurt. She could get tangled up in the mess that is your outrageous life. She could get as lost as _you are_, Rogers._

"You mean like, to go out?" Steve tests nervously. "On a date, rather?"

Beth reddened slightly at his candidacy, highlighting the ruffled nature of her hair from the wind and the lunchtime rush. "I was thinking about seeing that James Bond movie, actually, and well—two's company, right? But only if you'd be interested…" She glanced at him shyly.

Steve's heart pounds at her for two long painful moments before he finally finds himself, and suddenly he's nodding, confirming, his new affirmation of life honestly opening before him, and he finds that he can't hide from it anymore. He would never do this otherwise. Captain America would never do this.

_It's her, _the voice whispers softly, sending a thrill down his spine.

He smiles.

"Yeah," Steve nods at her, feeling as if the world beneath him has suddenly begun to spin backwards. "I would. I would like that very much."

* * *

_"The pain will ease if I can learn..." "No Day But Today", Mimi, RENT_


	6. New Identity

**AN:** So what took me so long? A really wonderful flippin' _DATE_, THAT'S WHAT TOOK ME SO LONG. It's full of the cute, the feels, the fears, and damn, do I spoil you guys with accurate research that no one cares about. Okay. I promise I broke it up into a few parts so it's easier on your guys. Although I hope you don't mind some awkward cut offs. Enjoy. C: PREPARE YOUR EYEBALLS. (new date chapter released every other day or so.)

Incase anyone wants to get a picture of what Steve's wearing during his date, it's this: http (semicolon)the(space)art(space)of(space)manliness / 2013/02/21/how-to-layer-clothing-men/

Scroll down till you see a guy with a red sweater, grey pants, you'll know what I'm talkin' about! c;

* * *

She said, 'would you light my candle' and she put on a pout, and she wanted you to take her out tonight?

* * *

Cream orange sunlight wavered in through the sleek wide window of Steve's bedroom the following morning with refreshing ease. Shaking up the shadows, the light highlighted the gentle layer of dust that settled over the mahogany dresser, coat rack, and the young man himself. The sweept of the room told a simple story of anxiousness: sheet twisted, comforter tossed about like a tiny toy ship made of feathers, leaning to and fo across the ocean of sleeplessness. Steve's bright blue eyes stared up at his ceiling, watching the movement of the clouds peel across the off-silver of his bedroom walls. He didn't need to look at his clock to know what time it was now. It didn't matter what time it was. He had been awake long before his alarm was set to go off, and now he just needed the final push to move.

Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting potion, unhooking a leg that was being clung to by the neediness of a bed that wished it had a better companion to allow itself have purpose. A soft shuffle of pressed fiber against Steve's chest forced the soldier's hand to prod around in his t-shirt for the source—and, a little worse for ware, he had Beth's number once again in his hand. He shifted the thin draping yellow strands away from the side of his face that he'd curled against during the night to found himself wearing a smile. He thumbed at it cheekily, wondering if he could just play it cool for few seconds before he had to remind even himself what a complete square he was. But Gosh, this girl was on his mind for weeks, and he might as well sow the seed now that if he was seriously _this_ smitten by her, he'd have to keep it in serious check.

Carefully Steve padded his way softly along the echoing hall walls of Stark Tower, slowing to a stop to occasionally listen to the complete quietness of Tony's home. It was surreal that in a mansion made of nano-bits and robotic controls and, well, super-humans—that quietness could still persist; that it could still perturb Steve's ears into the idea that this easy misty New York dawn have been the same quiet Steve heard in 1928, when he was six and he was prowling around with his small childhood apartment home, waiting for his father's shadow to march off into the factory field, whistling "A Kiss in the Morning Early".

The blond eagerly fetched his chipped mug from the expensive looking dish washer with a strange green eye, and decided to wash it by hand. It wasn't that he didn't think it worked properly, but sometimes technology moved just a tad too slow for what he could easily do himself. Soon, Steve found himself repeating the memory of his father with a rendition of "A Kiss in The Morning Early" as he half sang, half whispered quietly to himself in the kitchen. It was eerie, but as much as preforming "Captain America" scarred his ability to publically sing, (or, God strike him down if he tried to _act_ his sorry-butt through anything again) he still picked up a knack for music.

It was when Steve was setting up the silver coffee maker, which purred more than it seemed to produce anything, that a loud groan entered through the kitchen hatch and through the living room, leading to Tony's lab. Steve's eyes flickered faintly across the room, keeping his nerves steady in case this was one of those troublesome times when it was his super hearing letting him in on activities that he'd rather not know about—before a practically sleep-drunk Tony bumbled into the kitchen.

Although he smeared a hand across his eyes to protect himself from the light, sun, smell of coffee, and the soldier's image himself, the only thing Tony forgot was to cover his ears.

"Oh God, you've t'be fuckin' kiddin' me," Tony complained loudly, blindly making his way to towards the island table of the kitchen.

Steve politely stopped his cheerful song, embarrassed to be heard as much as he wished he could torment Tony more with sound. He played it off by steeling his gaze across the cold tiles of the kitchen, looking smug as he could possibly muster, coffee held to his lips in a smile. As much as he worried about everyone, there was a glimmer of satisfaction when Tony was in mundane distress that Steve himself knew so very well. It was nice to know that maybe there was a bit of natural justice in the world, and not everything came so easily to the Sliver-Spoon Smart mouth.

"Late night?" Steve offered, using one leg to pull out a chair for the childlike billionaire with knots paraded around in his coils of black hair.

Tony instantly sat down, his back towards Steve, and promptly laid his head against the table, cheek nestled against the heated surface that had been warmed by the morning's glory. There was a soft mutter that might've been an answer, but most likely was just a swear. Steve rolled his eyes, extremely aware of how he still carried a match of anger that could light itself into a torch of bitterness any second at Stark.

But not today. Not this morning.

Steve finished his coffee, making a point to smack the bottom of the mug down across the area of the table, shaking its baring. Tony didn't move, but his dark blood-shot eyes slowly moved to Steve with a look of complete exerted disbelief.

"'ow do' 'ou do this?" Tony's mouth sagged against the table, and Steve shrugged, as if that answered anything.

"You get used to it," Steve continued to play along: "How do you stay up so…early?"

Tony sucked in a breath and raised his head weakly over the table, eyes fully contemplative of the table's nonexistent pattern. "You get insomnia," Tony jested.

"That's when you don't sleep well, right?"

"That's when you don't sleep _ever._"

"Well isn't that an inconvenience for you," Steve pushed back his chair, clearly uninterested in Tony's woes.

"Not exactly," Tony brushed off Steve's attempt at early mudslinging. "but then again, you'd know all about how to sleep for a good long time, don't you Capcicle?" Tony paused as he waited for the reel to reel of derision that would slide across Steve's face. "Care to share a secret or three?"

Steve willed his face to stay completely natural as he challenged Tony's dark haggard inspection. No, he could do better than that. In fact, he smiled at Tony, strongly. Perhaps a bit too strongly, as the billionaire's eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise. "Actually ever since the Super Soldier Serum, I've found I only need about four hours tops. No real mystery to it."

Steve quickly dropped his mug back into the washer. In truth, there really was a mystery about the incredible things the Serum had done to his body—to survive in ice, to not getting drunk, fantastic strength, stamina—Steve thought it was pity that he'd have to sleep at all. But even still, deep in that darkness of his bedroom, he hated the idea of it. Sure, he'd have all the power he wanted while conscious—but even he was powerless against his subconscious. And Steve never dreamed. He only had nightmares of bleeding men and his body slowly turning numb. He twisted the smooth knob of the sink for warm water drip across his knuckles.

"Heh," Tony huffed as he pushed himself back onto his feet. "Ya know, you're on to something, Cap. That isn't the real mystery around here, is it?" Tony's dark eyes met Steve's for a split second, and Steve could feel himself being analyze down to his pores.

Steve stayed quiet, suddenly taking a great interest in the climbing temperature that had gone from a pleasant warmth to scalding hot across his skin. "Still not gonna talk, huh?" Tony coaxed with a raised eyebrow. "_Seriously?_"

Steve stayed collected as steam shuddered across his now boiling fingers, thankful for when the black haired scientist gave up and grumpily made for the cool dark shadows of the hallway.

"Whatever. Too tired to think, let alone give a shit. Enjoy your God damned bright ass-sunshine as you prance around Oz to ask the Wizard where the milk man went. Jesus Christ."

And with Tony's growling soon gone, Steve's enjoyment about his day grew.

* * *

Of course, there wasn't a real clock to tell Steve the actual time in Tony's manor of glamorous guile. A part of Steve was grateful that his black leather wrist watch had purpose again. The other part obsessed; there were no walls, on places of escape from the time leading to Steve's departure. If he wanted to know if a minute had passed since he strolled around the living room, he could just glance at his left hand. And this continued to be quite a problem for the rest of the seemly hundreds of hours he had to wait to get outside once again.

Sure, he was excited—but his excitement was coming off of the soldier in strange ways. For one, he was suddenly ungodly confused by all of his clothing. He fought with brown or grey slacks, wondering if it was updated enough, or if it smelled of mildew or whatever it was that happened to old clothing. Boots were suddenly too hard, and plain Saddle leather shoes too artsy. He didn't even bother with dress boots.

He switched between something new and stylish called "layering" that he found when he was desperate enough to scrounge around Tony's ritzy magazine collection from a printing called _Esquire._ He worried with his hair in the bathroom, brushed his teeth more times than a person ever should without realizing that he had only had just coffee a few hours ago, and had not actually eaten anything.

By the time his usually organized room was a completely mess, Steve was at the center of it. He nearly shoved it all back into the closet like a dejected child.

Good God, this shouldn't be _this_ hard.

He sat down on the rumpled black covers of his bed and stared at the floor, practicing his breathing. When he saw that he'd somehow managed to completely break a wooden hanger in his chaos, a smile twitched to his face—which grew into a wistful chuckle, and finally a laugh. He was glad he could laugh at himself to be in such a situation. It made Steve realise that he had a lot of material to work with, and that if he just calmed down he would find a sensible look.

With the rest of the Avengers here nor there, Steve cleared his throat quietly from where he sat.

"Excuse me, Jarvis…right?"

Although he could almost imagine the whirls of wiring and mechanisms hiding in the depths of Stark Tower, the monotone voice responded instantly to the question.

"That is correct, Captain Rogers. Might there be something you request?"

Steve resisted shuddering at the idea of talking to absolutely no one, less there was a way for the…voice…to see him and become offended.

"I was wondering about the temperature outside, and for later this evening."

"Fahrenheit or Celsius, sir?"

Steve blinked, drawing a blank for a moment. Of course Stark's robot couldn't be straight forward about something as simple as the weather. "Fahrenheit, I'd imagine."

"The temperature tonight across the bay and along Long Island will be at 39 degrees, with a risk of snow flurries and high wind mileage."

"Uh," Steve's eyes trained instantly on his warmer wear, and the whole debacle of dressing properly for his date seemed to ease. "Perfect. That's great, thank you, er, Jarvis."

"Of course, Captain."

And, without a proper means of making an exit, the voice was gone. The hair on the back of Steve's neck rose at the following silence. He'd never say it to anyone that ever asked, but Jarvis was creepy. It was truth. The darned thing was just plain creepy.

* * *

The curve of the full length mirror always made Steve do a double take whenever he caught his reflection there, which made him feel like some conceited moron whenever he ducked away. He often pretended not to take notice of his body, the swell of his muscles, the definition of his stomach, but some days even Steve had trouble believing that it was all real.

Tugging on plaid shirt, he fixed the collar straight about his neck which forced himself to come face to face with the blue eye'd man in the opposite world before him. His fingers froze, and slowly Steve allowed his eyes to study the reflection. The broadness of his own shoulders, the square of his jaw, and the compact degree of his chest—it seemed to be something that shouldn't ever be laced onto his body. Somedays Steve questioned if he was all a dream. It couldn't be real. It couldn't last. He shouldn't get his hopes up. His entire life, nearly twenty five years of it, the blond had been sickly. Asthma, hay fever, migraines, easily fatigued, the medical list went on forever. He was lucky if he could make a lap around the track of his high school, let alone ever dream of carrying a heavy machine gun. Back then he often tried to make up for his small size—he'd dress sharp, leading the eye away from how thin and how tired he seemed to be. He kept himself well read, and his mind razor sharp. And he knew someday, he'd get there.

Even if _there_ meant he was about 70 years far, _far_ over the rainbow from where he wanted to be.

He hooked the buttons leading up his shirt neatly before he reached for a tie along his closet rack. Tony had forced Steve out of his basic ties of black, brown or white into weird trends of colour. There was a bright red one, one with a penguin, and another that was a dark purple. Sighing, Steve chose what he hoped to be the least flashy of the bunch. It was a slick silver colour, mixed together with a tinged of grey that lead to an interesting shiny effect if one glanced at it quickly. He slid it around his neck and hinged the knot tightly; thankful for the grip of some type of attire that he felt he could wear, this time without any looks. Considering how chilly it would be he figured it'd only be fair to call for a decently warm maroon sweater from a hanger, adding simple grey slacks and a black belt, Steve checked his choices in the mirror one final time.

Adjusting the edges of the undershirt cuffs, Steve felt strangely prepared.

_There_, he told himself faintly. _You're getting somewhere, Rogers. Dapper or not._

His wristwatch finally seemed to pick up speed. It was 5:00.

* * *

The vibration of the motor cycle didn't help Steve's own nervous stomach from churning as he steered clear of the late evening rush for the movie theater. He cut off through a back alley, sped around a collection of old bricked apartment complexes, and found himself parking just 15 minutes shy of the ticket box itself. Easing out of his helmet, he felt a string twist tightly around his lungs, pulling them together as he feasted his sight on a movie complex since his incident.

It was all at once the same, and yet different. The large letters that sported each movie title to its own mini-wall of fame filled with light reminisced the cold cut black block letters of Steve's childhood. Much like the hypnotics of the subway exit and entry stops, the movie titles _moved_, bounced and flooded the large façade of the sign the screamed for attention to its passing public.

Steve felt star-struck as he maneuvered around the crisp shadows of people coming and going out its warm wide glass doors. The cement beneath Steve's shoes gave way to a squishier pressure, and when Steve tested the door of the joint to find that it too was splashed with painted false gold, he wasn't surprised to find a red carpet under his own feet. Somehow Steve expected limousines to pull up any second to start broadcasting a national event of stars scheduled to appear to see themselves perform—but staring out into the din and chase of the New York zags of yellows taxis, blues, reds, black cars speeding along without a second thought proved Steve wrong.

This was just a normal cinema night.

Steve swallowed as the grandiose flash and swirl of advertisements, candy and folks swarmed around him.

Thankfully, one thing that Steve found steadily amusing was the bored ticket vendor trapped inside his cone jail ceil that was lined with a little funny little slot for sliding out tickets or retrieving cash.

_Okay_, Steve sniffed, accepting the scandal that the movies had become as best he could. _This isn't much different from Howard Stark's World's Fair: "See The Technology of the Future"._ Just turns out that the guy was right about pretty much everything he ever said would come to trend. Steve practiced keeping a straight face as he approached the light that seemed to pour across the cold snowy skyline like glass bottle of gasoline to a fire; the shadows her smoke, the snow her impurities.

_This…isn't that big of a deal_, Steve promised to himself as he approached the ticket booth. _No problem._

"Evenin,'" Steve glanced up at the flashing lights behind the kid, and found himself instantly reading off not one, not two, but _dozens_ of movie titles in a row. Hands tapping idly at the tiny metal microphone from inside the booth, the young teenager clicked his teeth absently at Steve, his gaze seeming far off and his eyes slightly cloudy. After a few seconds of whatever the heck that was, Steve was savvy enough to notice that people could order tickets without needing to read every single word.

"I'd like two tickets, please, to James Bond, thanks."

The black haired crown of overly gelled hair made the kid's face look long and pale. "_Skyfall_, comin' up, sir."

"_Skyfall_?" Steve asked, eyes darting back to the charts.

"That's the name of the newest Bond film."

"Right, thanks."

Taking his sweet time, the kid ducked down, nearly losing his work cap in the process. Fliers stuck up all over the sheets of the booth, and the closest one caught Steve's eye.

_The Motion Picture Association of America's film-rating system_:

_G – General Audiences_

_PG – Parental Guidance Suggested_

_PG-13 – Parents Strongly Cautioned_

_R – Restricted_

_NC-17 – No One 17 & Under Admitted_

Slowly, Steve shifted to touch the words curiously. He got the gist what it all meant, but R and NC-17? His eyebrows rose at the thought of what such a picture could possibly contain.

Contrary to Tony's belief, the last film the soldier had ever seen was not _The Wizard of Oz_, but _Gone with The Wind, _an'_ The Hutchback of Notre Dame_. Steve wasn't too large a fool to get that even movies back then had their rough spots—heck, Bucky had shoved him more times into more grimy cinema seats than Steve could count, leaping at the dumb shot of catching some image of a naked woman after the Hays code passed. He could still recall ducking down at just the right angle when they knew their sorry hides would be tossed out if a roaming flashlight caught a single hair of them. It wasn't Steve's favourite place to be. Not when he knew that it wasn't real—just some Jane that thought stripping her clothes off was some high class love affair. When he was a kid, he didn't question why it made him feel so uncomfortable. But as the years passed, and he watched Bucky get taller, gain more stone and grit to his smile, Steve figured it had something to do with the fact that no miraculous change such as that was going to strike him.

Somehow Bucky, in the flicker of the projector, was a regular Clark Cable. And Steve? Well… at least that Hutchback guy had someplace to hide his own irregularities.

But he decided not to fester on it. Dancing seemed stressful, anyhow. Clubs seemed too chaotic. So what if a gal's eye never turned towards him in the daylight? Soon, war broke out and priorities happened.

But even jokingly with his pal, the act of sneaking into some sleazy film just made Steve feel ashamed. And he supposed that sneaking into the pictures still happened with kids today than he could wrap his head around.

The microphone made a rude sound of clearing its throat.

"That'll be 20 bucks," the kid's drone echoed boredly.

Steve exchanged the bill and collected the thin square passes, interested that the way tickets were made seemed to be static. Running a thumb over the tickets surface, Steve held it up to compare it to the Film Rating Chart. From behind the glass the teen's interest seemed to rise ever so slightly. He'd never seen someone, certainly a grown single bro, actually give a damn about that stupid chart before.

"Do you need further help, mister?"

Steve felt bombarded by the tiny type of myriad numbers and letters across the pass. What if _Skyfall_ was somehow like the films that Bucky pushed him into? Sure, he'd matured in a thousand ways since 30's, but to sit next to Beth on their _first date_ for Pete Sake, and watch two actors completely nude getting closer, and _closer_….probably more liberal and wild than anything Steve would _ever _be prepared to face…the whole scene made his stomach flip and land wrong inside of him.

"I was just wondering what _Skyfall_ was rated."

"PG-13."

Relief rushed through Steve's veins. "So it's pretty tame?"

The kid before him looked exasperated as ever, a glint of impulse lining his glare. "It's a James _Bond _flick, sir. I mean, I know everything rebooted is complete bullshit, but I hear this one isn't too bad. Daniel Craig isn't Connery, but it's worth your money. Now, please step aside. You're holding up the line."

Steve moved along as he was told, wondering how that kind of explanation made sense to anyone.

The inside of the movie theater was a palace of bright colour. Sour smells of overly buttered popcorn, pop drinks, and lines were everywhere_. Lots_ of lines. The round front area was a lobby made up of lines of people. Lines for drinks, lines for specialty tickets—Steve could only imagine what the line for the bathroom must've looked like. The carpet beneath the sole of Steve's feet turned from red to a twisty patterned of cartoony movie tickets, popcorn pieces, and snow covered shoe prints. The walls were a dark blue, and wonderful pictures of movie stars, all hand drawn in black ink, lined anywhere Steve looked. He actually recognized a few—and was proud of himself for recognizing the daughter of the Barrymore lineage Beyond the sea of patrons, overstuffed with trays, popcorn tubs of red and white stripes and Coke soda, two long shadowy hall ways spit just off to either side ominously.

Steve stopped, backed up a few feet, and decided that it'd be a better idea to wait outside once again before the smell gagged him.

* * *

The soft outline of the nightlight slowly blinked it's neon eyes as it sleepily awoke all around Steve's head as 6 o'clock came 'round. Tall towers glowed like lighthouses, guiding the ebb and flowing waves of screeching, honking, squalling traffic that zoomed in and out, and people seemed to never stop arriving.

Steve stood nearest to the pillar coated in miniature snowflakes that blinked in time to a song that kept repeating a line that went _have a holly jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year._ Casually, a black man with a green sweater lit up a cigarette about a foot away from Steve, and the smoke curled thick into the chilly wind, occasionally lingering out his nostrils as the man spoke to another fella of his.

Waiting before seemed like a circle of hell. A hell that was made up of happy go-lucky Christmas crooners and warm woolen shirts and excited smiles. But a hell, never the less, as he raced to the plaza. But now Steve had nothing left to do. Nothing but to stare into the icy frost hanging from the lights and pretend that he was as cool inside as he was out.

Eventually the man finished his cigarette and flushed it out under his heel before slandering off his with friend into the fiery lights of the cinema's lobby. Steve could only gander that the whole deal must've taken five minutes, and he sighed.

It looked like time would always be Steve's enemy.

A few more snowflakes swooped and danced with each other through the air, banging into the LED lights and spinning the patterns along the cement. Steve watched them turn, amused by the effect when a shadow stood over them.

"Steve Rogers?" A calm feminine voice asked him.

Steve's mouth went dry.

Beth stood in the center of the snowfall, tiny pieces of ice sewn into her long curling hair that fell languid past her shoulders, reflecting the passing traffic in a watery glow. She was wrapped in a peach coloured jacket that clung to the curve of her figure with four large round brown buttons that hung loosely from her chest to her waist. Peeking from the slightly open collar, Steve could see that she had also "layered" like he had attempted. A cashmere grey covered her neck line modestly, although Steve instantly wanted to find reason to touch the soft downy curled there. Her honey-blonde hair seemed to shake itself out in the wind, constantly changing its style from windblown rebellion to curly studded silver. Whenever the cold ripped through her, her cloth made movements like the material enjoying giving its owner a hug.

Steve had never wanted a cigarette so badly in all of his life.

"Beth," Steve tried not to let his excitement shake her name. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."

She smiled at him, looking so much like a handcrafted doll. The creamy-peach of her outfit reminded Steve of when they first met—she really _did_ look real nice in soft pastels. It made Steve feel better to know that perhaps Beth knew she did as well.

"Really, the pleasure is all mine," The way she said this seemed almost like she had an inside joke to it. Beth's makeup seemed demure as it was before. Although, there was definitely rouge this time to redden her cheeks—that or Steve realized that he had her standing out in the cold with blizzard warnings all around them.

"It's pretty chilly out, huh? Would you like go inside?"

Her eyes shifted ever so slightly toward the ticket vendor. "Do you plan on smuggling me in?"

She raised her eyebrows at Steve's off put expression. His reactions were something to get used to.

Steve did a double take at the ticket booth. "_Oh_, no—I got them already."

His hand wavered like magic, and poof, two tickets appeared.

She turned her small purse from hand to hand. "Steve, that was really nice. I brought my own money and everything, you know. So, I'll buy us the snacks."

Steve took notice of the grubby kid's cold expression from the booth, and he lowered his voice. "I'm glad you say 'buy', because the service here certainly has changed since I last saw a movie. Makes me want to swindle in candy."

"My mother and I used to do that all the time, but it's true about most movie houses. I guess I can relate though. Once you work a job serving the major public, it's hard to get over it." She smirked. "What's the last movie you've seen?"

Steve could feel the sweat seeping into his ticket from his palm. The last movie he'd seen haven't been shown on any silver screen in nearly 50 years. Quickly he thought fast, flipping through for anything that might pass for recent. And, like a prayer, he spotted a name he hadn't considered would still exist anymore. _Disney_. A Disney production poster for a 'coming soon' film called _Monsters University._

"Disney. Uhm," Steve grimaced. "I mean, _Snow White_. There was a special showing of it up on the East Side a few years go."

In truth, _Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs_ was an achievement that had been talked about long after most live production shows had died down. A bit of an interest in drawing himself, Steve was fascinated with the motion of the animation cells across the screen. Bucky called him a complete pushover, (although Barnes had a dame wrapped around him as they squished in to watch a child's movie, so Steve smacked the back of his head and told him that it took one to know one.) but Steve learned to take Bucky's caterwauling with a grain of salt. Sure, Steve's own cartoons would never move, but he could still enjoy the art of animation. Disney was on to something special.

Beth's smile widened, and then she laughed.

"What?" Steve asked, buffeted.

"You're just really cute." Beth stiffed a giggle. "That's really cool. I adore Disney myself. I can't wait for them to re-release _The Little Mermaid_."

Steve's swallowed nervously at her compliment, wishing he could just as easily tell her that she looked, frankly, adorable. But he couldn't get the words out beyond the over inflation of his adam's apple.

"I have to admit that I haven't seen much of anything film wise."

"That's okay. This is my first James Bond film too. Which…we should probably go see before we both freeze out here?" Beth offered with shiver.

"That's fine by me." Steve instantly felt like a schmuck having her standing out here still. He didn't get cold nearly as easy as he used to, but still, he could relate. Winter for a twig guy in Brooklyn was miserable.

Beth's face lit up, as if she just realized that their date was actually happening, framed by the LED glow of fake snowflakes. "I've been looking forward to this all day."

"Me too," Steve grinned. _And maybe a few weeks, or months before that._

Beth's shoes clicked quietly along the ground, but suddenly Steve seemed to be already at the edge of the door, holding it open. Nervously, she thanked him, although apart of her wondered how he moved so fast. She didn't think her legs were that short.

The popcorn scented air warmed the couple up instantly. To Steve's encouragement the lines had died down to only a few stragglers. Beth marveled at the newest movie preview from a flat television screen from above, and Steve happily watched her watching it.

"Do you have a favourite candy?" He asked, inching towards the closest glass top counter.

"Oh no you don't. When I offer to do something, what I really mean is that I'm going to do it, and you really shouldn't stop me." Beth's blue eyes flashed, she raced ahead to the counter, allowing the swing of her arm to lightly tap Steve's side. The side of Steve's mouth lifted at her attention to his willingness to pay.

"Hurm," Beth's brows tightened together at she pondered over the rainbow of choices. "I'll have a large popcorn, some water, and…what would you like?"

Steve barely looked upwards to consider. "I'll have what the lady is having."

Beth smirked into his jest, studying Steve's droll expression from the corner of her eye. The college student with a nametag that said_ Sally _rolled her eyes before the pair, clearly unimpressed.

"Could you combine our checks? We're going to share." Beth continued. Sally turned and fetched the popcorn.

"Share?" Steve asked quickly.

"Well," Beth's blush seemed to darken. "Isn't that the classic idea?"

"It sounds just fine to me."

Sally returned with the stripped bag and two bottles of water. Lazily, she gave Steve a once ever, and her pierced eyebrow twitched. Suddenly her voice seemed more pleasant. "Would you like anything else, sir? Is the film you're seeing a 3-D one?"

Beth turned to Steve, one arm reaching into her purse to pay. "3-D, right, I meant to ask you. Did you buy _Skyfall_ in 3-D?"

_3-D?_ Oh great, and he thought he'd gotten past the worse of it. Steve scrounged around for the tickets folded in his pants pocket, and pulled them out. "I uh, don't believe so. I just asked for _Skyfall_. The kid out front didn't mention—"

"Let me see your ticket, please." Sally quipped, making for Steve's hand. "Ah, no, you have regular seats, but you should really try 3-D sometime. It's gimmicky, but I swear sometimes it's something really special." She almost seemed sorry she had nothing else to hand over to the blond solider. "That'll be $11. 50." She deadpanned at Beth.

As they moved away, Steve could still feel Sally's gaze digging into the back of his head, and it filled him with worry. _3-D._ Steve wondered if he'd slipped up already. He knew he should've asked Doctor Banner or _someone_ about the movies, but he…darn it, he knew he couldn't be that bad. His blue eyes jumped to Beth, although she seemed none the wiser. Maybe he should just address it now…

Steve wanted to hide his face in the open maw of the yellow popcorn below him. "Good grief," he muttered. He shifted the near nonsexist weight of the bag to his other arm. "Do you think she noticed?"

Beth strolled closely beside him. "Noticed what?"

"That I have no idea what '3-D' even is?"

Beth's head slowly turned to look at Steve dead on, and his fingers curled roughly around the bag in defense. Her lips pursed before she spoke, but she said next wholly surprised him.

"Would you like to try it out?"

* * *

_"Right,"_

_"She got you out!"_

_- "Christmas Bells"- Roger, Mark, RENT_

* * *

**AN**: Thank you SO much again for all the follows, favourites, and reviews! I just squee inside over reviews! I like to think I work pretty hard on this long story, and I'm so sorry that it churns out slowly. But, you know, slow churned ice cream is the best!

Unless it melts.

Then it's just like, all over your shoes, and sticky and...uh.

What was I talking about?


	7. The First Date

**AN:** So what took me so long? A really wonderful flippin' _DATE_, THAT'S WHAT TOOK ME SO LONG. It's full of the cute, the feels, the fears, and damn, do I spoil you guys with accurate research that no one cares about. Okay. I promise I broke it up into a few parts so it's easier on your guys. Although I hope you don't mind some awkward cut offs. Enjoy. C: PREPARE YOUR EYEBALLS. (new date chapter released every other day or so.)

Incase anyone wants to get a picture of what Steve's wearing during his date, it's this: http (semicolon)the(space)art(space)of(space)manliness / 2013/02/21/how-to-layer-clothing-men/

Scroll down till you see a guy with a red sweater, grey pants, you'll know what I'm talkin' about! c;

* * *

She said, 'would you light my candle' and she put on a pout, and she wanted you to take her out tonight?

* * *

Cream orange sunlight wavered in through the sleek wide window of Steve's bedroom the following morning with refreshing ease. Shaking up the shadows, the light highlighted the gentle layer of dust that settled over the mahogany dresser, coat rack, and the young man himself. The sweept of the room told a simple story of anxiousness: sheet twisted, comforter tossed about like a tiny toy ship made of feathers, leaning to and fo across the ocean of sleeplessness. Steve's bright blue eyes stared up at his ceiling, watching the movement of the clouds peel across the off-silver of his bedroom walls. He didn't need to look at his clock to know what time it was now. It didn't matter what time it was. He had been awake long before his alarm was set to go off, and now he just needed the final push to move.

Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting potion, unhooking a leg that was being clung to by the neediness of a bed that wished it had a better companion to allow itself have purpose. A soft shuffle of pressed fiber against Steve's chest forced the soldier's hand to prod around in his t-shirt for the source—and, a little worse for ware, he had Beth's number once again in his hand. He shifted the thin draping yellow strands away from the side of his face that he'd curled against during the night to found himself wearing a smile. He thumbed at it cheekily, wondering if he could just play it cool for few seconds before he had to remind even himself what a complete square he was. But Gosh, this girl was on his mind for weeks, and he might as well sow the seed now that if he was seriously _this_ smitten by her, he'd have to keep it in serious check.

Carefully Steve padded his way softly along the echoing hall walls of Stark Tower, slowing to a stop to occasionally listen to the complete quietness of Tony's home. It was surreal that in a mansion made of nano-bits and robotic controls and, well, super-humans—that quietness could still persist; that it could still perturb Steve's ears into the idea that this easy misty New York dawn have been the same quiet Steve heard in 1928, when he was six and he was prowling around with his small childhood apartment home, waiting for his father's shadow to march off into the factory field, whistling "A Kiss in the Morning Early".

The blond eagerly fetched his chipped mug from the expensive looking dish washer with a strange green eye, and decided to wash it by hand. It wasn't that he didn't think it worked properly, but sometimes technology moved just a tad too slow for what he could easily do himself. Soon, Steve found himself repeating the memory of his father with a rendition of "A Kiss in The Morning Early" as he half sang, half whispered quietly to himself in the kitchen. It was eerie, but as much as preforming "Captain America" scarred his ability to publically sing, (or, God strike him down if he tried to _act_ his sorry-butt through anything again) he still picked up a knack for music.

It was when Steve was setting up the silver coffee maker, which purred more than it seemed to produce anything, that a loud groan entered through the kitchen hatch and through the living room, leading to Tony's lab. Steve's eyes flickered faintly across the room, keeping his nerves steady in case this was one of those troublesome times when it was his super hearing letting him in on activities that he'd rather not know about—before a practically sleep-drunk Tony bumbled into the kitchen.

Although he smeared a hand across his eyes to protect himself from the light, sun, smell of coffee, and the soldier's image himself, the only thing Tony forgot was to cover his ears.

"Oh God, you've t'be fuckin' kiddin' me," Tony complained loudly, blindly making his way to towards the island table of the kitchen.

Steve politely stopped his cheerful song, embarrassed to be heard as much as he wished he could torment Tony more with sound. He played it off by steeling his gaze across the cold tiles of the kitchen, looking smug as he could possibly muster, coffee held to his lips in a smile. As much as he worried about everyone, there was a glimmer of satisfaction when Tony was in mundane distress that Steve himself knew so very well. It was nice to know that maybe there was a bit of natural justice in the world, and not everything came so easily to the Sliver-Spoon Smart mouth.

"Late night?" Steve offered, using one leg to pull out a chair for the childlike billionaire with knots paraded around in his coils of black hair.

Tony instantly sat down, his back towards Steve, and promptly laid his head against the table, cheek nestled against the heated surface that had been warmed by the morning's glory. There was a soft mutter that might've been an answer, but most likely was just a swear. Steve rolled his eyes, extremely aware of how he still carried a match of anger that could light itself into a torch of bitterness any second at Stark.

But not today. Not this morning.

Steve finished his coffee, making a point to smack the bottom of the mug down across the area of the table, shaking its baring. Tony didn't move, but his dark blood-shot eyes slowly moved to Steve with a look of complete exerted disbelief.

"'ow do' 'ou do this?" Tony's mouth sagged against the table, and Steve shrugged, as if that answered anything.

"You get used to it," Steve continued to play along: "How do you stay up so…early?"

Tony sucked in a breath and raised his head weakly over the table, eyes fully contemplative of the table's nonexistent pattern. "You get insomnia," Tony jested.

"That's when you don't sleep well, right?"

"That's when you don't sleep _ever._"

"Well isn't that an inconvenience for you," Steve pushed back his chair, clearly uninterested in Tony's woes.

"Not exactly," Tony brushed off Steve's attempt at early mudslinging. "but then again, you'd know all about how to sleep for a good long time, don't you Capcicle?" Tony paused as he waited for the reel to reel of derision that would slide across Steve's face. "Care to share a secret or three?"

Steve willed his face to stay completely natural as he challenged Tony's dark haggard inspection. No, he could do better than that. In fact, he smiled at Tony, strongly. Perhaps a bit too strongly, as the billionaire's eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise. "Actually ever since the Super Soldier Serum, I've found I only need about four hours tops. No real mystery to it."

Steve quickly dropped his mug back into the washer. In truth, there really was a mystery about the incredible things the Serum had done to his body—to survive in ice, to not getting drunk, fantastic strength, stamina—Steve thought it was pity that he'd have to sleep at all. But even still, deep in that darkness of his bedroom, he hated the idea of it. Sure, he'd have all the power he wanted while conscious—but even he was powerless against his subconscious. And Steve never dreamed. He only had nightmares of bleeding men and his body slowly turning numb. He twisted the smooth knob of the sink for warm water drip across his knuckles.

"Heh," Tony huffed as he pushed himself back onto his feet. "Ya know, you're on to something, Cap. That isn't the real mystery around here, is it?" Tony's dark eyes met Steve's for a split second, and Steve could feel himself being analyze down to his pores.

Steve stayed quiet, suddenly taking a great interest in the climbing temperature that had gone from a pleasant warmth to scalding hot across his skin. "Still not gonna talk, huh?" Tony coaxed with a raised eyebrow. "_Seriously?_"

Steve stayed collected as steam shuddered across his now boiling fingers, thankful for when the black haired scientist gave up and grumpily made for the cool dark shadows of the hallway.

"Whatever. Too tired to think, let alone give a shit. Enjoy your God damned bright ass-sunshine as you prance around Oz to ask the Wizard where the milk man went. Jesus Christ."

And with Tony's growling soon gone, Steve's enjoyment about his day grew.

* * *

Of course, there wasn't a real clock to tell Steve the actual time in Tony's manor of glamorous guile. A part of Steve was grateful that his black leather wrist watch had purpose again. The other part obsessed; there were no walls, on places of escape from the time leading to Steve's departure. If he wanted to know if a minute had passed since he strolled around the living room, he could just glance at his left hand. And this continued to be quite a problem for the rest of the seemly hundreds of hours he had to wait to get outside once again.

Sure, he was excited—but his excitement was coming off of the soldier in strange ways. For one, he was suddenly ungodly confused by all of his clothing. He fought with brown or grey slacks, wondering if it was updated enough, or if it smelled of mildew or whatever it was that happened to old clothing. Boots were suddenly too hard, and plain Saddle leather shoes too artsy. He didn't even bother with dress boots.

He switched between something new and stylish called "layering" that he found when he was desperate enough to scrounge around Tony's ritzy magazine collection from a printing called _Esquire._ He worried with his hair in the bathroom, brushed his teeth more times than a person ever should without realizing that he had only had just coffee a few hours ago, and had not actually eaten anything.

By the time his usually organized room was a completely mess, Steve was at the center of it. He nearly shoved it all back into the closet like a dejected child.

Good God, this shouldn't be _this_ hard.

He sat down on the rumpled black covers of his bed and stared at the floor, practicing his breathing. When he saw that he'd somehow managed to completely break a wooden hanger in his chaos, a smile twitched to his face—which grew into a wistful chuckle, and finally a laugh. He was glad he could laugh at himself to be in such a situation. It made Steve realise that he had a lot of material to work with, and that if he just calmed down he would find a sensible look.

With the rest of the Avengers here nor there, Steve cleared his throat quietly from where he sat.

"Excuse me, Jarvis…right?"

Although he could almost imagine the whirls of wiring and mechanisms hiding in the depths of Stark Tower, the monotone voice responded instantly to the question.

"That is correct, Captain Rogers. Might there be something you request?"

Steve resisted shuddering at the idea of talking to absolutely no one, less there was a way for the…voice…to see him and become offended.

"I was wondering about the temperature outside, and for later this evening."

"Fahrenheit or Celsius, sir?"

Steve blinked, drawing a blank for a moment. Of course Stark's robot couldn't be straight forward about something as simple as the weather. "Fahrenheit, I'd imagine."

"The temperature tonight across the bay and along Long Island will be at 39 degrees, with a risk of snow flurries and high wind mileage."

"Uh," Steve's eyes trained instantly on his warmer wear, and the whole debacle of dressing properly for his date seemed to ease. "Perfect. That's great, thank you, er, Jarvis."

"Of course, Captain."

And, without a proper means of making an exit, the voice was gone. The hair on the back of Steve's neck rose at the following silence. He'd never say it to anyone that ever asked, but Jarvis was creepy. It was truth. The darned thing was just plain creepy.

* * *

The curve of the full length mirror always made Steve do a double take whenever he caught his reflection there, which made him feel like some conceited moron whenever he ducked away. He often pretended not to take notice of his body, the swell of his muscles, the definition of his stomach, but some days even Steve had trouble believing that it was all real.

Tugging on plaid shirt, he fixed the collar straight about his neck which forced himself to come face to face with the blue eye'd man in the opposite world before him. His fingers froze, and slowly Steve allowed his eyes to study the reflection. The broadness of his own shoulders, the square of his jaw, and the compact degree of his chest—it seemed to be something that shouldn't ever be laced onto his body. Somedays Steve questioned if he was all a dream. It couldn't be real. It couldn't last. He shouldn't get his hopes up. His entire life, nearly twenty five years of it, the blond had been sickly. Asthma, hay fever, migraines, easily fatigued, the medical list went on forever. He was lucky if he could make a lap around the track of his high school, let alone ever dream of carrying a heavy machine gun. Back then he often tried to make up for his small size—he'd dress sharp, leading the eye away from how thin and how tired he seemed to be. He kept himself well read, and his mind razor sharp. And he knew someday, he'd get there.

Even if _there_ meant he was about 70 years far, _far_ over the rainbow from where he wanted to be.

He hooked the buttons leading up his shirt neatly before he reached for a tie along his closet rack. Tony had forced Steve out of his basic ties of black, brown or white into weird trends of colour. There was a bright red one, one with a penguin, and another that was a dark purple. Sighing, Steve chose what he hoped to be the least flashy of the bunch. It was slick silver colour, mixed together with a tinged of grey that lead to an interesting shiny effect if one glanced at it quickly. He slid it around his neck and hinged the knot tightly; thankful for the grip of some type of attire that felt he could wear, this time without any looks. Considering how chilly it would be he figured it'd only be fair to call for a decently warm maroon sweater from a hanger, adding simple grey slacks and a black belt, Steve checked his choices in the mirror one final time.

Adjusting the edges of the undershirt cuffs, Steve felt strangely prepared.

_There_, he told himself faintly. _You're getting somewhere, Rogers. Dapper or not._

His wristwatch finally seemed to pick up speed. It was 5:00.

* * *

The vibration of the motor cycle didn't help Steve's own nervous stomach from churning as he steered clear of the late evening rush for the movie theater. He cut off through a back alley, sped around a collection of old bricked apartment complexes, and found himself parking just 15 minutes shy of the ticket box itself. Easing out of his helmet, he felt a string twist tightly around his lungs, pulling them together as he feasted his sight on a movie complex since his incident.

It was all at once the same, and yet different. The large letters that sported each movie title to its own mini-wall of fame filled with light reminisced the cold cut black block letters of Steve's childhood. Much like the hypnotics of the subway exit and entry stops, the movie titles _moved_, bounced and flooded the large façade of the sign the screamed for attention to its passing public.

Steve felt star-struck as he maneuvered around the crisp shadows of people coming and going out its warm wide glass doors. The cement beneath Steve's shoes gave way to a squishier pressure, and when Steve tested the door of the joint to find that it too was splashed with painted false gold, he wasn't surprised to find a red carpet under his own feet. Somehow Steve expected limousines to pull up any second to start broadcasting a national event of stars scheduled to appear to see themselves perform—but staring out into the din and chase of the New York zags of yellows taxis, blues, reds, black cars speeding along without a second thought proved Steve wrong.

This was just a normal cinema night.

Steve swallowed as the grandiose flash and swirl of advertisements, candy and folks swarmed around him.

Thankfully, one thing that Steve found steadily amusing was the bored ticket vendor trapped inside his cone jail ceil that was lined with a little funny little slot for sliding out tickets or retrieving cash.

_Okay_, Steve sniffed, accepting the scandal that the movies had become as best he could. _This isn't much different from Howard Stark's World's Fair: "See The Technology of the Future"._ Just turns out that the guy was right about pretty much everything he ever said would come to trend. Steve practiced keeping a straight face as he approached the light that seemed to pour across the cold snowy skyline like glass bottle of gasoline to a fire; the shadows her smoke, the snow her impurities.

_This…isn't that big of a deal_, Steve promised to himself as he approached the ticket booth. _No problem._

"Evenin,'" Steve glanced up at the flashing lights behind the kid, and found himself instantly reading off not one, not two, but _dozens_ of movie titles in a row. Hands tapping idly at the tiny metal microphone from inside the booth, the young teenager clicked his teeth absently at Steve, his gaze seeming far off and his eyes slightly cloudy. After a few seconds of whatever the heck that was, Steve was savvy enough to notice that people could order tickets without needing to read every single word.

"I'd like two tickets, please, to James Bond, thanks."

The black haired crown of overly gelled hair made the kid's face look long and pale. "_Skyfall_, comin' up, sir."

"_Skyfall_?" Steve asked, eyes darting back to the charts.

"That's the name of the newest Bond film."

"Right, thanks."

Taking his sweet time, the kid ducked down, nearly losing his work cap in the process. Fliers stuck up all over the sheets of the booth, and the closest one caught Steve's eye.

_The Motion Picture Association of America's film-rating system_:

_G – General Audiences_

_PG – Parental Guidance Suggested_

_PG-13 – Parents Strongly Cautioned_

_R – Restricted_

_NC-17 – No One 17 & Under Admitted_

Slowly, Steve shifted to touch the words curiously. He got the gist what it all meant, but R and NC-17? His eyebrows rose at the thought of what such a picture could possibly contain.

Contrary to Tony's belief, the last film the soldier had ever seen was not _The Wizard of Oz_, but _Gone with The Wind, _an'_ The Hutchback of Notre Dame_. Steve wasn't too large a fool to get that even movies back then had their rough spots—heck, Bucky had shoved him more times into more grimy cinema seats than Steve could count, leaping at the dumb shot of catching some image of a naked woman after the Hays code passed. He could still recall ducking down at just the right angle when they knew their sorry hides would be tossed out if a roaming flashlight caught a single hair of them. It wasn't Steve's favourite place to be. Not when he knew that it wasn't real—just some Jane that thought stripping her clothes off was some high class love affair. When he was a kid, he didn't question why it made him feel so uncomfortable. But as the years passed, and he watched Bucky get taller, gain more stone and grit to his smile, Steve figured it had something to do with the fact that no miraculous change such as that was going to strike him.

Somehow Bucky, in the flicker of the projector, was a regular Clark Cable. And Steve? Well… at least that Hutchback guy had someplace to hide his own irregularities.

But he decided not to fester on it. Dancing seemed stressful, anyhow. Clubs seemed too chaotic. So what if a gal's eye never turned towards him in the daylight? Soon, war broke out and priorities happened.

But even jokingly with his pal, the act of sneaking into some sleazy film just made Steve feel ashamed. And he supposed that sneaking into the pictures still happened with kids today than he could wrap his head around.

The microphone made a rude sound of clearing its throat.

"That'll be 20 bucks," the kid's drone echoed boredly.

Steve exchanged the bill and collected the thin square passes, interested that the way tickets were made seemed to be static. Running a thumb over the tickets surface, Steve held it up to compare it to the Film Rating Chart. From behind the glass the teen's interest seemed to rise ever so slightly. He'd never seen someone, certainly a grown single bro, actually give a damn about that stupid chart before.

"Do you need further help, mister?"

Steve felt bombarded by the tiny type of myriad numbers and letters across the pass. What if _Skyfall_ was somehow like the films that Bucky pushed him into? Sure, he'd matured in a thousand ways since 30's, but to sit next to Beth on their _first date_ for Pete Sake, and watch two actors completely nude getting closer, and _closer_….probably more liberal and wild than anything Steve would _ever _be prepared to face…the whole scene made his stomach flip and land wrong inside of him.

"I was just wondering what _Skyfall_ was rated."

"PG-13."

Relief rushed through Steve's veins. "So it's pretty tame?"

The kid before him looked exasperated as ever, a glint of impulse lining his glare. "It's a James _Bond _flick, sir. I mean, I know everything rebooted is complete bullshit, but I hear this one isn't too bad. Daniel Craig isn't Connery, but it's worth your money. Now, please step aside. You're holding up the line."

Steve moved along as he was told, wondering how that kind of explanation made sense to anyone.

The inside of the movie theater was a palace of bright colour. Sour smells of overly buttered popcorn, pop drinks, and lines were everywhere_. Lots_ of lines. The round front area was a lobby made up of lines of people. Lines for drinks, lines for specialty tickets—Steve could only imagine what the line for the bathroom must've looked like. The carpet beneath the sole of Steve's feet turned from red to a twisty patterned of cartoony movie tickets, popcorn pieces, and snow covered shoe prints. The walls were a dark blue, and wonderful pictures of movie stars, all hand drawn in black ink, lined anywhere Steve looked. He actually recognized a few—and was proud of himself for recognizing the daughter of the Barrymore lineage Beyond the sea of patrons, overstuffed with trays, popcorn tubs of red and white stripes and Coke soda, two long shadowy hall ways spit just off to either side ominously.

Steve stopped, backed up a few feet, and decided that it'd be a better idea to wait outside once again before the smell gagged him.

* * *

The soft outline of the nightlight slowly blinked it's neon eyes as it sleepily awoke all around Steve's head as 6 o'clock came 'round. Tall towers glowed like lighthouses, guiding the ebb and flowing waves of screeching, honking, squalling traffic that zoomed in and out, and people seemed to never stop arriving.

Steve stood nearest to the pillar coated in miniature snowflakes that blinked in time to a song that kept repeating a line that went _have a holly jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year._ Casually, a black man with a green sweater lit up a cigarette about a foot away from Steve, and the smoke curled thick into the chilly wind, occasionally lingering out his nostrils as the man spoke to another fella of his.

Waiting before seemed like a circle of hell. A hell that was made up of happy go-lucky Christmas crooners and warm woolen shirts and excited smiles. But a hell, never the less, as he raced to the plaza. But now Steve had nothing left to do. Nothing but to stare into the icy frost hanging from the lights and pretend that he was as cool inside as he was out.

Eventually the man finished his cigarette and flushed it out under his heel before slandering off his with friend into the fiery lights of the cinema's lobby. Steve could only gander that the whole deal must've taken five minutes, and he sighed.

It looked like time would always be Steve's enemy.

A few more snowflakes swooped and danced with each other through the air, banging into the LED lights and spinning the patterns along the cement. Steve watched them turn, amused by the effect when a shadow stood over them.

"Steve Rogers?" A calm feminine voice asked him.

Steve's mouth went dry.

Beth stood in the center of the snowfall, tiny pieces of ice sewn into her long curling hair that fell languid past her shoulders, reflecting the passing traffic in a watery glow. She was wrapped in a peach coloured jacket that clung to the curve of her figure with four large round brown buttons that hung loosely from her chest to her waist. Peeking from the slightly open collar, Steve could see that she had also "layered" like he had attempted. A cashmere grey covered her neck line modestly, although Steve instantly wanted to find reason to touch the soft downy curled there. Her honey-blonde hair seemed to shake itself out in the wind, constantly changing its style from windblown rebellion to curly studded silver. Whenever the cold ripped through her, her cloth made movements like the material enjoying giving its owner a hug.

Steve had never wanted a cigarette so badly in all of his life.

"Beth," Steve tried not to let his excitement shake her name. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."

She smiled at him, looking so much like a handcrafted doll. The creamy-peach of her outfit reminded Steve of when they first met—she really _did_ look real nice in soft pastels. It made Steve feel better to know that perhaps Beth knew she did as well.

"Really, the pleasure is all mine," The way she said this seemed almost like she had an inside joke to it. Beth's makeup seemed demure as it was before. Although, there was definitely rouge this time to redden her cheeks—that or Steve realized that he had her standing out in the cold with blizzard warnings all around them.

"It's pretty chilly out, huh? Would you like go inside?"

Her eyes shifted ever so slightly toward the ticket vendor. "Do you plan on smuggling me in?"

She raised her eyebrows at Steve's off put expression. His reactions were something to get used to.

Steve did a double take at the ticket booth. "_Oh_, no—I got them already."

His hand wavered like magic, and poof, two tickets appeared.

She turned her small purse from hand to hand. "Steve, that was really nice. I brought my own money and everything, you know. So, I'll buy us the snacks."

Steve took notice of the grubby kid's cold expression from the booth, and he lowered his voice. "I'm glad you say 'buy', because the service here certainly has changed since I last saw a movie. Makes me want to swindle in candy."

"My mother and I used to do that all the time, but it's true about most movie houses. I guess I can relate though. Once you work a job serving the major public, it's hard to get over it." She smirked. "What's the last movie you've seen?"

Steve could feel the sweat seeping into his ticket from his palm. The last movie he'd seen haven't been shown on any silver screen in nearly 50 years. Quickly he thought fast, flipping through for anything that might pass for recent. And, like a prayer, he spotted a name he hadn't considered would still exist anymore. _Disney_. A Disney production poster for a 'coming soon' film called _Monsters University._

"Disney. Uhm," Steve grimaced. "I mean, _Snow White_. There was a special showing of it up on the East Side a few years go."

In truth, _Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs_ was an achievement that had been talked about long after most live production shows had died down. A bit of an interest in drawing himself, Steve was fascinated with the motion of the animation cells across the screen. Bucky called him a complete pushover, (although Barnes had a dame wrapped around him as they squished in to watch a child's movie, so Steve smacked the back of his head and told him that it took one to know one.) but Steve learned to take Bucky's caterwauling with a grain of salt. Sure, Steve's own cartoons would never move, but he could still enjoy the art of animation. Disney was on to something special.

Beth's smile widened, and then she laughed.

"What?" Steve asked, buffeted.

"You're just really cute." Beth stiffed a giggle. "That's really cool. I adore Disney myself. I can't wait for them to re-release _The Little Mermaid_."

Steve's swallowed nervously at her compliment, wishing he could just as easily tell her that she looked, frankly, adorable. But he couldn't get the words out beyond the over inflation of his adam's apple.

"I have to admit that I haven't seen much of anything film wise."

"That's okay. This is my first James Bond film too. Which…we should probably go see before we both freeze out here?" Beth offered with shiver.

"That's fine by me." Steve instantly felt like a schmuck having her standing out here still. He didn't get cold nearly as easy as he used to, but still, he could relate. Winter for a twig guy in Brooklyn was miserable.

Beth's face lit up, as if she just realized that their date was actually happening, framed by the LED glow of fake snowflakes. "I've been looking forward to this all day."

"Me too," Steve grinned. _And maybe a few weeks, or months before that._

Beth's shoes clicked quietly along the ground, but suddenly Steve seemed to be already at the edge of the door, holding it open. Nervously, she thanked him, although apart of her wondered how he moved so fast. She didn't think her legs were that short.

The popcorn scented air warmed the couple up instantly. To Steve's encouragement the lines had died down to only a few stragglers. Beth marveled at the newest movie preview from a flat television screen from above, and Steve happily watched her watching it.

"Do you have a favourite candy?" He asked, inching towards the closest glass top counter.

"Oh no you don't. When I offer to do something, what I really mean is that I'm going to do it, and you really shouldn't stop me." Beth's blue eyes flashed, she raced ahead to the counter, allowing the swing of her arm to lightly tap Steve's side. The side of Steve's mouth lifted at her attention to his willingness to pay.

"Hurm," Beth's brows tightened together at she pondered over the rainbow of choices. "I'll have a large popcorn, some water, and…what would you like?"

Steve barely looked upwards to consider. "I'll have what the lady is having."

Beth smirked into his jest, studying Steve's droll expression from the corner of her eye. The college student with a nametag that said_ Sally _rolled her eyes before the pair, clearly unimpressed.

"Could you combine our checks? We're going to share." Beth continued. Sally turned and fetched the popcorn.

"Share?" Steve asked quickly.

"Well," Beth's blush seemed to darken. "Isn't that the classic idea?"

"It sounds just fine to me."

Sally returned with the stripped bag and two bottles of water. Lazily, she gave Steve a once ever, and her pierced eyebrow twitched. Suddenly her voice seemed more pleasant. "Would you like anything else, sir? Is the film you're seeing a 3-D one?"

Beth turned to Steve, one arm reaching into her purse to pay. "3-D, right, I meant to ask you. Did you buy _Skyfall_ in 3-D?"

_3-D?_ Oh great, and he thought he'd gotten past the worse of it. Steve scrounged around for the tickets folded in his pants pocket, and pulled them out. "I uh, don't believe so. I just asked for _Skyfall_. The kid out front didn't mention—"

"Let me see your ticket, please." Sally quipped, making for Steve's hand. "Ah, no, you have regular seats, but you should really try 3-D sometime. It's gimmicky, but I swear sometimes it's something really special." She almost seemed sorry she had nothing else to hand over to the blond solider. "That'll be $11. 50." She deadpanned at Beth.

As they moved away, Steve could still feel Sally's gaze digging into the back of his head, and it filled him with worry. _3-D._ Steve wondered if he'd slipped up already. He knew he should've asked Doctor Banner or _someone_ about the movies, but he…darn it, he knew he couldn't be that bad. His blue eyes jumped to Beth, although she seemed none the wiser. Maybe he should just address it now…

Steve wanted to hide his face in the open maw of the yellow popcorn below him. "Good grief," he muttered. He shifted the near nonsexist weight of the bag to his other arm. "Do you think she noticed?"

Beth strolled closely beside him. "Noticed what?"

"That I have no idea what '3-D' even is?"

Beth's head slowly turned to look at Steve dead on, and his fingers curled roughly around the bag in defense. Her lips pursed before she spoke, but she said next wholly surprised him.

"Would you like to try it out?"

* * *

_"Right,"_

_"She got you out!"_

_- "Christmas Bells"- Roger, Mark, RENT_

* * *

**AN**: Thank you SO much again for all the follows, favourites, and reviews! I just squee inside over reviews! I like to think I work pretty hard on this long story, and I'm so sorry that it churns out slowly. But, you know, slow churned ice cream is the best!

Unless it melts.

Then it's just like, all over your shoes, and sticky and...uh.

What was I talking about?


	8. Movie

**AN: **Look it' lil ole Kay! Keepin' her promises and everything! Ah-mazing. Thank you again for the follows and reviews. I just. Can't stop smiling. Please enjoy part 2 out of 4 of their date. ;) Minor spoilers for _Skyfall_. Don't worry, I keep things _very_ ambiguous!

* * *

[MIMI] They say I have the best ass below 14th street. Is it true?

[ROGER] _What?_

[MIMI] You're staring again.

[ROGER] Oh no. I mean you do - have a nice -I mean! - You look familiar!

[MIMI] Like your dead girlfriend?

* * *

There was something black and shimmery that sat nearest to the left hallway of the lobby, and Beth made no haste in steering Steve towards it. It looks like the decorated underside of an old jalopy with two seats placed deep inside a few low sides. It had two screens showing off explosions and other glossy images with a weird haze to their quality. Upon approach, Steve wondered who obviously stole the steering wheel to the machine.

"All right," Beth declared happily. "I present to you: 3-D!"

Steve's grin is a little lackluster, searching for what exactly he was supposed to do.

"What does 3-D mean anyway?" Really, he wasn't stalling.

"Three Dimensional. Basically it makes the movie's characters and actions pop out of the screen onto your face, like they're truly there in front of you."

Steve looked at the right screen again to see a dark hooded figure riding an overly sleek motorcycle into an orange explosion and nearly gaped. It certainly didn't look like fun. Steve had seen enough explosions to last him a good while, thank you very much.

"Erm," Steve could feel himself trying to get away. This was the iced coffee all over again.

But then again, the iced coffee was an_ independent variable_ that gained him this chance with Beth. (as Stark would've probably described it.)

"Here, I'll get in with you," Beth offered, already scooting down into one of the seats. The ruffle of her coat hiked up around her shoulders, pushing the gleam of her hair further into the purple light above.

Well. If she was there, that didn't seem so bad.

Beth stared up at Steve, her blue eyes pleading. "I promise it's not scary."

Steve lowered himself inside, extremely aware that their shoulders were touching. "I'm not scared," He tried to laugh it off. "T—"

Steve stopped himself. He almost said _Tony's made me aware that horror films are the worst now a days._

"T—trust me," Steve unfroze himself. "I'm sort've a horror movie fan." There. It wasn't too much of a little white lie.

"Are you?"

"Only if it's bad." Whatever a 'bad' movie really meant. He heard Clint and Tony complain about it all the time, especially when Thor was involved with picking the picture. Steve was almost always impressed with the effects—even if they weren't up to believable par. He just enjoyed watching as the movie era grew into a more professional skill.

She threw back her head to laugh, and Steve's eyes were drawn to the curve of her neck. A thin silver chain twinkled between the blonde strands. "Cheesy horror movies are the best movies."

"So," Steve squinted at the screens before them, noticing not a hair of difference. "Is it working?"

"I don't think that's a question I can answer for you." Something clunked beside Beth, and soon she was handing him a pair of glasses. Confused, the blond took them politely.

"I actually have fine eyesight. Are these really necessary?"

"Mhmm," Beth hummed, slipping them on. "You'll see."

The soldier suspiciously put them on, instantly irked by just how dark the entire world around him had grown. He could hardly see Beth beside him—and even worse, it seemed like she was out of focus for some reason. He lifted the glasses again, screwing up his eyes. Now she looked fine.

Beth stared back at him, and Steve felt himself flush. "May I?" She asked.

Steve slowly nodded, unsure of what he was doing wrong. Carefully, Beth's hand reached over, the soft pads of her fingers pressing against Steve's cheek, moving him back towards the screen. One hand clinched to the far off side the instant they made contact. Steve questioned if it was really happening.

And then the gushing, fiery explosion on screen hit him clear in the face.

Steve steeled his shoulders back as he flinched, shifting hard along the edge of the chair—shoes nailed to the floor. His eyes slammed shut, hard, and his heart beat was in his ears—loud. He was breathing far too loud.

Suddenly the light beyond his eyelids seemed brighter. Someone was breathing, close, so very close to his own mouth—it was tinted in a sweet, warm rush.

"Oh my God." Beth's voice was suddenly very upset beside him, triggering Steve's senses back to reality. "Oh, my, God." She repeated, emphasizing every word. Steve cracked open one eye to witness Beth tossing both glasses away, muttering to herself. Her entire face was a bright red.

Steve's winced off looking at that terrible screen again, nearly reaching out for her. _Did she see that explosion too? She saw it right?_ Steve's heart trembled._ Did it scare her?_ Suddenly, a terrible thought crossed his mind.

He could see her oh so many months ago in the back of his mind. just beyond the grime and blood of his mask. Screaming, tears flowing from her eyes as the Chitauri threatened everyone in the station. She could duck down, she could cry out—but even Steve's body curled around the grenade couldn't stop its sound. Terror as it ripped and pushed bodies through the air, falling apart around her.

_Did I scare her?_

He found he couldn't breathe.

_Oh no._

"Beth? It's okay—"

"No." She was still, her back to him. "No, that _wasn't_ okay. Steve." She turned to face him, and her eyes seemed practically watery. "I am _such _an inconsiderate moron. Are _you_ okay?" A hand reached out—maybe for his face, maybe for his hand—but it stopped midair.

They paused, tripping over their own words. Beth got hers out better.

"You mentioned you just got back from…from _war_ of all horrible things, and just…_I am so sorry._" Her hands were pulling at her hair. "I just didn't think. I just don't think."

Steve leaned over more, wanting to calm her but not knowing how.

"Beth—that—that wasn't your fault. Honestly. It's alright," His voice lowered gently, although his heart jammed itself so roughly against his rib cage he was sure it was bruised. He struggled for a tangible second if this was _his_ voice, or Captain America's comfort, but whomever it was, it had to be said, and fast. "Really. I'm just…really grateful that you got those blasted glasses off." He tried to lighten the mood again. "But you were right. That was some serious _3-D."_

She tried to smile, but it fell apart like a wet napkin of blush and lipstick. "I just thought it'd be fun to show you. I'm so sorry…if…if that was…" She couldn't even finish the sentence. She stared into the screen now, and Steve wondered if she saw The Battle of New York in tiny repeating pictures like he did. Her own personal war that everyone was too disturbed to talk about. The civilian war of life struggling to go on.

Steve stood up, stepping out of the seat and found a way to take her hand. He extended it to her and after a brief second she took it. He held her grip tightly as she stood. She was trembling.

"Beth," He looked at her meaningfully, trying to plead with his eyes like she was already so good at. "Don't worry about it. It's not like our movie is in 3-D, right?"

She steeled in his grip, giving his fingers a single squeeze before letting go. "Right," her voice seemed to be turning back its lovely self once more. "I forgot how intense it's gotten."

Steve picked up the bag again, grateful for something warm to hold across his hands. They had gone numb the second the explosion happened. "Certainly nothing like any picture I've ever seen."

They both chuckled nervously together as they walked through the coolness of the hallway.

* * *

The round white lights dimmed slowly from their watch on the ceiling making Steve feel smaller and smaller from where he sat. The velvet looking walls held orange glowing pictures of a star-lit drive, and the ocean, which quickly faded out like bright stars.

Beth settled in beside him, the black armrests locking them apart from one another, although Beth's arm laced ever so slightly over the edge to touch Steve's own arm—the warmth from her body was strangely calming, as his heart was still doing little thumps.

"How do you feel about previews?"

Steve thought for a moment. "You mean like the cartoons?"

Beth's lips rolled together, shining the lipstick there a light pink. "Cartoons?"

"Yeah," Steve eases back in his chair, trying to relax. "Um, Disney. Do they not play those anymore?"_  
_  
"Disney," Beth whispered it softly. She picks a top piece from the popcorn between them, and chews it thoughtfully. It's quiet to her, but to Steve's ears it's bumping against the silence like a steady clap. She wants to ask him very badly when he'd exactly saw a movie last, but she just can't. She already scared the poor guy enough for the day. She was honestly surprised when he sat down beside her, and didn't just make for the glowing emergency exit. Then she remembers what he means.

"They sometimes do!" She springs back to life, and it surprises Steve so much that a piece of popcorn is halfway in, halfway out from between his lips. A hand flashes up to cover his mouth.  
Beth nervously shrinks down in her seat. "Sorry. I just, they still do. Usually only before Disney films."

"Oh, well that's good to hear that they're still in style." This seems to please her date, and Beth smiles.

"What they play now is more so upcoming features for new movies."

"Really? I would think they'd take advantage of the crowd sourcing and play the news." Steve's brows furrow together for a second, but they ease when Beth looks at him again with concern in her eyes. "Well, you know…like they do on the television. About the attack."

Their hands knock together as they both reach for the popcorn at the same time. Beth pulls back, pretending to want to her drink more, but the water fills her mouth with a taste of regret, unable to forgive herself for her own stupidity.

Her swallow is loud in Steve's ears.

"I think…people come to the movies to escape. To…try to be somewhere else for a while." Her voice is quiet in the hush, and Steve realises that this is the point where talking must be whispered about. "I don't think we like to think of it as escapism, but…still. That's what it is."

A slender hand reaches back to push a blonde curl behind her ear. Steve's gaze is intense upon her suddenly. She hurries to finish her thought. "Do you ever wish to be elsewhere? Like, when you read? Or…draw?"

Steve's timbre voice seems even lower as he hoarsely whispers: "You remember my drawings?"

Beth's hands fly up, motioning in the air with delight over Steve's modesty. "Remember, of course I do—" Her hands drop to back into her lap bashfully. "I mean, I'm sorry if that was eavesdropping of me, but not all of my costumers sit there and draw and look so…"

Steve's turns his head ever so slightly at her, and Beth skips whatever it was she was about to say.

"You really do have a gift for it. I'd love to see them again, sometime. Or just…you know, watch you draw. You seem really, I dunno, into enjoying what you're creating. And..well," Her fingers tighten over the arm of the seat. "I really admire that. The first time we met, I wanted to go back and ask you more about it. My best friend, Ronda, she loves street artists, and well…I was going to actually pay you to draw something for her." A sad laugh slips through her lips. "But, you were gone already."

Steve finds himself wishing the lights would blow out in distraction to cover his blush in the darkness at her praise. He'd always been so self-conscious about his scribbles.

"It's just hobby, really, but it means a lot that you noticed."

Beth's smirk is back, delicate along the left side of her cheek. "And I noticed that you've avoided the question."

Steve steels himself.

"Do you wish to be elsewhere, sometimes? Um," She pauses, slowly considering how much privacy she could be invading. "In your drawings?

Steve's expression is waxing on tenebrous when the lights hide them both entirely. The faintest outline visible is of his jaw, the flicker of his light eyes, and Beth wonders what his true emotion is, but the question is out and she can't see it. She wonders if she ever will. There's a lengthy pause.

"I used to wish I could go back in time. Before my departure. But…." He licks his lips, the salt running his throat dry. "This…this right here, is nice." The shadows shift, and the outline of his arm is coated a white-blue. "The movie might not be real, and we may not be able to live in it forever. But I'm glad I'm here with you."

They both blush in the dim movie light that's caressing their face. Beth wants to hold his hand so badly, but she's afraid of groping around in the dark. Knowing her luck, and she'd accidently fondle his lap—not a very romantic impression.

* * *

It seems all too soon when the movie actually starts, and _Steve is not prepared._

The screen, so much wider and bigger and brighter than anything he's ever seen ever, and the piano _bangs _ into his ears from the massive speakers to either side, leaving them ringing. His own water bottle jumps as he tries to hide his discomfort, as it is clear that no one around him is experiencing the same effect. The screen is a swirl of graphics and colours, and a young woman's voice is beautiful over the whole affair. Steve is flabbergasted as he is curious.

The man, whom Steve can only assume is the Bond fellow, hits the water hard and soon is being sucked down into the bottomless sand…consumed…suffocating. Steve head aches slightly, but he refuses to block it out. He takes a deep breath, as if he himself is drowning.

His breathing hitches when an obviously naked woman is flashed across the screen, the camera scandalously zooming down her body—and her eyes face the camera—her hair dark, her eyes brown…nearly black…her lips full and lush—_P_.

Steve breathes out, closes his eyes, chiding himself.

It was ridiculous to feel this way, but his palms sweat.

The imagery is incredible. Tiny flicks of bullets pierce the shadows dancing along the ground, under Bond's feet—mysterious animals and women disappearing and repeating—and Steve finds himself growing more and more accustom to what his character is all about.

* * *

That doesn't take long as Bond is soon thrusting about with a naked tramp across the screen.

Sex. Making love. Intercourse. Knockin' boots. A roll in the hay. Whatever it's called now a days, that's it.

James Bond is all about makin' woopie.

The unhidden, blatant, and slightly arrogant kind as well.

Steve resists the urge to act childish. To hide, or get up and go to the men's room, anything but watch anymore of what is going on, on screen. Occasionally he glances at Beth, but her expression is starry-eyed and far away, and obviously not upset at all about what's happening. He breathes deeply through his nose, flexing the fingers of his numbing hands.

All of Bond's women sinuate lust in every movement with red lipstick, and British accents. As a matter of fact, so does Bond. With the fetish for proliferating to the audience about showing more British loyalty that they could possibly muster, Steve wants to groan. He understands all the more how incompetent and stupid his own Captain America shtick must look, past and present.

Bond seems to be the perfection of a super spy. Charming, smooth, fast talking. His pride reminds Steve of Stark, grudgingly, as well as his ostentatious intimacy drive.

The worst part however, is the accent of the love interest. It physically _hurts_ Steve when she talks. He can't blink when she's on screen. He can't close his eyes for a single second—for in the darkness it's her, _Peggy_, whispering to him. In the darkness it's not a fictional character, but Peggy taking a tumble with some Joe with blonde hair and blue eyes that looks so much like Steve but isn't, can _never_ be, because he left her. He's not there—he's gone. Gone. Drowning. Sinking. Growing colder, and _colder._

All around the movie theater grows steadily freezing, but he can't will himself to move.

Truth be told, he did find the whole film very engaging, between the aching of his temples and the whispers of a thousand words that he'd never hear Peggy say to him ever again. When he finally loses the feeling in his fingers, Steve knows he has to try to steady himself. He's come so far. He can't back down.

He digs deep into his memory and recalls the old trick move that Bucky would try to rub off on every dame he frolicked with. You fake a yawn, move into a stretch, and place it around her. Simple enough.

From the corner of his eye, Steve finds that Beth is completely enthralled in yet another scene—but thankfully it's tinted with a more romantic tone. A more important gal—with beautiful dark skin and curling black hair—is giving Bond a close shave with a straight razor. Twitching his right hand, Steve's muscles recall the movements of his own straight razor shaves. (Much more effective than the motorized junk Tony insists upon.) Steve yawns quietly, reaches up and managed to actually successfully gather his arm around Beth.

_Bucky would be so proud_, Steve thinks to himself with a bit of moxie.

Instantly, he's warm. No. He's more than warm. The skin under his collar is _burning_ up, and he can feel the sweat gliding down his neck. The shaving scene takes _a lot_ longer than expected, and no amount of concentration can resist Steve's eye from playing a game with him. And ever so briefly, he wonders if Beth and he could ever be so close together. Lips practically touching with every muttered word—and she'd have his razor slowly grazing across his cheek, he'd hold nothing back but to lift his hands to her face and open mouth kiss her, _right there_, steaming and covering them both with shaving—

Nope. His arm is his again, but his body feels nicely toasted, and he figures that he's good for a least an hour more.

* * *

His arm sneaks back around Beth for a second time, and is resting comfortably when suddenly the unthinkable happens. Bond lets a young woman die. Steve nearly panics right there in his seat. The arm around Beth's shoulders tightens and rocks her as he startles. Their eyes meet worriedly. His eyes cling to Beth for reason, but she appears just as stunned as Steve is.

Steve pulls himself back together with a clear of his throat.

She didn't just die. She's shot right through the chest by the villain. Right there. Gone. And Bond…just watches…just _watches_ it all happen…

Steve swallows the tight lump in his throat, his mind buzzing with how he could have saved her. Even if a gun was held to his head, he'd try. He wouldn't just…

Beth herself winces at the sound of the gun, curling her spine into the cushion of the seat. She remembers being held to alien gunpoint—dust swirling around and the pounding of her heart as she nearly vomited in fear. And suddenly, Captain America was there. Saving, not just her, but everyone packed into the station from the shrapnel of the grenade.

Beside her, Beth notices Steve's own distress.

His fist closes tightly as he glares on—but suddenly a fluttering smoothing motion travels up his arm. It's Beth. She's not looking at him, but somehow…she's there, lightly prodding at the muscles in Steve's fist, and her thumb slowly traces across his knuckles. Steve allows his fist to uncurl.

The popcorn is forgotten for the rest of the movie as they fail to move. But they've touched. And that's enough.

* * *

When _Skyfall_ is over, Steve isn't sure who is more relieved, Beth, or himself.

"So what'd you think of your first James Bond movie?" For some reason, Steve sounds breathless.

"It was a rush. A very shocking rush." She breathes out slowly. "And you?"

Steve blinks a few times to gauge his reaction. How did it make him feel? Re-live most of his time with Peggy, it seemed. Have him sweat under his collar, most definitely. But when he recalls placing his arm around Beth, it turns out he thinks it to be a pretty snazzy film.

"He's quite the character. I had no idea one man could get so many broads."

Beth sputters her laugh, sounding a bit like the old water facet in Steve's apartment bathroom. Steve raised his eyebrows at her curiously.

"Didn't you know that James Bond is the poster man for sexual deviousness?"

Steve whistles. "Not even in the slightest."

Beth swirls her hand around in the small pouch of her purse, and a tiny small screen reads out to be 9:00pm. The foreshadowed snow flurries that Jarvis had mentioned eerier seemed to be gently littering the streets in patches of shiny, tinkering ice. Beth's hair swirls out tastefully about her, and her eyes reflect the glow of the snowflakes waltzing in the air.

"Well," She sounds sad when she finally interjects Steve's wishful view of her. "it's 9 o'clock exactly. Great timing to call it a night."

Steve's hand still tingles slightly from where she traced her thumb across it in the darkness. He cranes his neck to get a good look at Stark Tower, and even from a distance Steve still feels disdain in every attempt at going back to it.

"Do you really want to leave?" Steve lays the question lightly in the air, truly not wanting to part just yet. "I mean, I completely understand if you've gotta be somewhere…but I really do love walking around at night. It feels good to stretch my legs, too. That movie was longer than _Gone With The Wind._"

This wins a bright grin from Beth, showing all of her teeth, just like the smile she had given him when they first met, and she had turned back to look at him.

"I didn't want to push my time with you," She glances at him shyly from behind her lashes, but her face lights up. "I just felt so bad about, well, the glasses." She bites her lower lip in a way that Steve thought gals didn't actually do.

But _Lord_, she's actually _biting_ her lip in distress.

Steve forces himself to talk or else he'd just stare like a dunce. "Beth, really, you shouldn't worry about that. It wasn't your fault."

"—I know, I know," Beth agrees softly. Her smile darkens ever so slightly. "I'm sorry again, you know."

"I know you know," Steve chuckles into his answer.

"Any place in particular you'd like to go?"

Across the glittering, shifting waves of traffic, Steve sees the answer twinkling before him just along the dark bay.

"How does Coney Island sound?"

* * *

_[ROGER] Only when you smile. But I'm sure I've seen you somewhere else.._ - Mimi, Roger, "Light My Candle", _RENT_

* * *

**AN:** God, they're so freakin' adorably awkward, I can't even. Can you guys even? Because I can't even. Poor Steve. There's nothing anyone could have done to prepare him for the bombastic Bond. It was my first Bond movie too, Goldenpuon. c; And hey, thanks to everyone for giving Beth a chance to breathe and gain character. I can't wait to lace Ronda into the story. Woo, buddy.

Also, thanks for the comments about if I'm writing Steve well! It sincerely means a lot, as I try my very best to research and bring him to life for you guys.

Basically I learned that my lust to be a classy mother-fucking gentleman is x100000 increased. Any else else get that way? No? Okay. well, stay classy. Update in another day or so. c:

**ps.** Oh my, Captain Rogers! Thinkin' about getting all hot and bother with Beth, hummmmm? Wonder when that'll start taking off...well, once you two stop being so perfectly awkward, jesus, we can't handle it.


	9. A Nostalgic Gift

**AN:** Please enjoy. Part 3/4. Poor Steve. The things I do to this man. And Beth, as well! Ah well, let's see what trouble our two lil' birds run into next?

* * *

Take your powder - take your candle,  
Your sweet whisper  
I just_ can't_ handle.  
Well, take your hair in the moonlight,  
Your brown eyes - goodbye, goodnight...  
I should tell you I should tell you-  
I should tell you I should - no!

* * *

Beth's hand felt strangely soft mixed against the rough palm of Steve's own, but that's where it stayed. He wasn't sure who made that kind of connection first—but it made his entire arm tingle when she squeezed his hand—because that's what he understands now: Beth's a bit over the top with her excitement. Sheer delight, Steve would coin it, though—it made him wonder, really. And it struck him think of the last movies he had ever seen. He mostly really got a kick out of the previews that were all kinds of fun black and white cartoons. The last one Steve recalls is a Disney flick, with two Mouse type characters—and the female reminds him most of Beth. Minnie, he believes to be her name. And in consequence, Steve imagines her like the cartoon character _Minnie Mouse, _with tiny sounds that make her light up brighter than all of Time Square. Energy—Beth was full of energy in everything she did—and Steve felt like he was constantly moving forward with her, hand in hand, able to physically feel every reaction she had.

The smooth cuff of Steve's dark jacket is forcefully tugged at due to Beth's brisk walking pace, but Steve doesn't mind keeping up. It takes quite a bit to get him winded and he enjoys the motion of moving forward so quickly. It helps him pretend that maybe he's moving into the future as purposefully as Beth is. The downside to Beth's fast walking is avoiding collusions with other grumpy Christmas shoppers—more than twice Steve find himself apologizing for bumping into a large stack of bags or so. Occasionally they bump into each other, but Steve plays it off by gently holding her back from a particularly eye-catching sparkle of an ice slick that would doom them to fall into a worse state of embarrassment.

The island walk's pavement paraded around the pair in great ostentatious cascades of silver twine, gleaming oval bulbs, and the rich scent of fresh balsam spilling from every crack of a lit-up store door and snow cluttered fire escape.

Cheeks pink between her brisk stride in the gustily chills, Steve thinks it a trick of atmosphere to suddenly find himself nose to nose ( or more so nose to forehead) when Beth turns back to look at him. The red lights strung between the iron bars of the metal gates, beams, and cable wires criss-cross along her hair like tiny ghostly ribbons, and Steve's fingers flex to shake out the reaction to touch them. Her lips part as she eyes him, her brows raised, her lips white and chapped. Suddenly, Beth's eyes grow huge.

"Oh my God! D'you see that?" The soft fluttering warmth flew from the cage of the super-soldier's fingers as Beth pointed. Twisting on a leather heel that crunched the snow beneath them, Steve looked in her direction to see a sudden massive crowd that had operatically gathered behind them.

And all at once, Steve feels the world spinning beneath them, faster and faster—and knows he has to out run it. His jaw tightens.

This was it. It was clear that he'd just gotten too careless and a civilian noticed him out in public. The crowd was coming for Captain America, and it was all Steve Rogers could do to not start dashing away, eyes wild and fearful and _desperate_—but he knows he'd look back at her (_just like she had first looked back at him_), and whatever expression that would be on her face in that moment would make Steve fall into a shellshock worse than nights when he'd wake up screaming, covered in sweat, every inch of his body aching from hellish imaginary barbed wire from crawling under a German trench.

And at that same moment, Beth's hand returned Steve's world to a stop.

"It's a flash mob! I don't believe it! I thought these would only ever be staged and on YouTube!" Beth exclaimed merrily. Steve thoughts bunched around in his skull as he tried to grasp what exactly is going on.

"A…flash mob?" Steve knew about _flashers,_ but a group of naked folks tramping around in the dead of Winter being a good thing was beyond him.

"Interested in seeing one?"

Steve fought the urge to look at her like she was crazy. "If you insist?"

The crowd itself seemed to be swaying in a way—and soon music—bright, loud; powerful music was wafting through the chilly evening air. Steve's eyes grew wide in wonder as they approached. A few couples split one way—some folks moved another, and suddenly Beth had managed to gain them both near front row seats to folks _dancing_, of all the wild things, right in the street!

Beth let out a quiet cheer as one young man lifted up his gal and nearly flung her around his side, swooping her back down between his legs and hoisting her up again. The crowd went nuts; they ate it up. Steve rubbed his eyes hard, not quite believing it himself. He'd _seen_ that move before. In 1937, when Bucky's doll dizzy days were much more care free and Steve himself was too much of a shy dead hoofer to even think about joining on that bar's dance floor.

"They're _swing_ dancing—I can't even _believe_ it! Can you?!" Beth called over the rush of music, although Steve could still hear her fine.

"It's—it's something else, all right," Steve managed slowly, his eyes never leaving anyone that could keep the beat of the jazz players—God, how could he have _missed_ that trumpet before, the snare drums?

"I think most of the dances they're preforming are from the 1950's," Beth continued. Steve felt Beth squeeze his hand in that delighted way that lit up his chest and made his heart pound. He could nearly slip into it…he could nearly pretend, just for a moment, that this was 1938….

"1940's," Steve corrected instantly, a little too loudly, and it made Beth look over him pointedly. Steve floundered for a reason to explain his biting tone.

"I have a—"

"Obsession?" Beth's mouth half smiled at him cutely.

Steve paused, considering through the noise around them. "I was gonna say 'hobby', but yeah, obsession is probably the truth of it."

"With the 40's?" she asked in surprise—her voice was full of interest.

Steve's heart sank low, but he swallowed the sadness in his voice when he answered her. "With nostalgia."

* * *

"Do you want to dance?" Her hand is out, patient and giving, her voice full of laughter.

Steve shifts from foot to foot anxiously. The British voices had been messing with his brain, and Peggy's voice is so crystal clear to him that he feels like he's falling into thousand pieces that will melt into the snow.

_Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late! Understood?_ Her voice. So strong and commanding. Right to the end.

_You know, I still don't know how to dance._

Her desperate laugh._ I'll show you how. Just_ be_ there._

"I…" Steve can't force the words out.

"I don't know how either, if that helps." Beth's voice is warm on the wind. "I've never danced."

Steve's mind flashed. He had said that once. Once when time was straight forward and he was still a dumb kid from Brooklyn that didn't stand a chance.

He resisted closing his eyes tight, resisting the sting in them.

Is this was the chance, why did it hurt so much?

* * *

Beth cannot even begin to understand the pain that's on Steve's face, and she quickly tries to mend. Why does she say such stupid things? Why does she keep hurting him? _God, I _suck_._ Ronda's voice in her head confirms it as well. _You suck, girl._

"Maybe some other time?" Beth's voice is suddenly closer, and Steve can feel the wool of her jacket, nearly smell the sweet clear perfume of her hair. "I'd love to see the boardwalk at night."

He's still, even when she gives a small pull on his hand. His eyes are tight over the dancers, far away from her, and for a moment Beth wonders who he's thinking of. She only finds sorrow sitting her belly when she understands that maybe she's the relapse, or maybe the rebound. Beth bets that whoever it is must be gorgeous. And a great dancer.

She never should have said she couldn't dance.

"Steve?" Her voice is soft, full of concern, and it seems to knock Steve back to reality.

Suddenly his hand is in hers, tight and pressing down a bit too hard.

"The boardwalk, of course," His eyes don't meet hers. They're searching the black skylight, dodging snowflakes, already at the bay, and Beth can't keep up. "Please excuse me. Right this way."**  
**  
Steve tries his best to not shoulder his way through the crowd, tightly grasping Beth's hand behind him as he decides to take the lead for once. The glint of a large window-shop had been practically waving at him out the comer of his eye since they had strolled by to look at the swing crowd. When he stops by the holly-wreath on the glass door, Beth's head tilts endearingly at him. He really wants to try and fix what he's done. She may have scared him, but denying her something as simple and fun as a first dance has got to have a sting.

"What's up?" Her words touch his face in puffs of warm frost.

Steve's squinted hard into the window, zeroing in just along a little stack of neatly wrapped glittering foil and Christmas-y tins, he knows that he's found just what he's looking for.

"Beth, would you mind terribly if I go inside for a second?" Their hands slip apart as much as Steve doesn't want them to.

She gives him a knowing once over with a mischievous glint, but the cold has made her lips a bright red, and when she smiles it's like they're an opening winter rose. "Cold,soldier Steve?"

Steve flushes at his nickname, but is grateful that the collar of his wool jacket hides that it's traveled down his neck. "A bit," he adds softly, enough for Beth to know that he's not above sarcasm if it's a part of their agenda.

"Okay," she lowers her eyelids carefully at Steve, "Well, if you insist on being secretive, then I'm going to insist that I do the same."The long haired blonde turned on a dime and began her mini jog over to the adjacent shop.

Steve stepped inside and the heat instantly soaked into his socks and jacket, rushing the chill out of his fingers. Jars of honey, spices, and shimmering metal plates that turned in different patterns lined the ceiling and walls. The tile beneath Steve's leather shoes were caked with muddy snow and bits of twine. Along the upper cabinets of the shop lay a small venue of Disney merchandise—and there, straight out of Steve's foggy memory, was the cartoon mouse girl's trademark bow. He moseyed over to it eagerly, wanting to get to it before it disappeared like everything else always seemed to.

He recalled it from the talkies—they were always so upbeat, and musical, and she'd be sitting on the piano while _Mickey_ (Steve had racked his brain _hard _for the male mouse's name) sat down to play it. And when he got up to sing, and the piano stool he sat on started to play in his stead. It was unexpectedly charming, hilarious even. And Steve could always recall how it made nearly everyone in the audience smile, or laugh. And that was needed. Certainly during the war, when the country needed it most.

And now a-days…after the attack…

Well, we still need it.

Maybe it was odd for a soldier like Steve to have such respect for something as childish as cartoons, but that was the truth. And it was a great surprise to see how well the mouse couple had taken off. Steve was glad they were still around, still wanted, and even beloved by so many generations. It made Steve felt like he had a chance, too. He could still picture the grainy film of the "A Mickey Mouse Cartoon" presenting itself. And Minnie's bow. That was iconic. That was wonderful. That was his memories. And that was exactly what had caught Steve's eye.

It rested on a tiny pair of earrings that glinted red and white, so much like Beth's smile, from the window at Steve since he started woolgathering about it all. He reached over and ran the pad of his finger over the finely raised crystals settled inside the round earing, noticing just how extremely small the set looked next to his seemly giant hand. He was almost afraid to purchase them now.

"Swarovski crystals, pavé and pound," A friendly voice called from the front of the shop. Steve turned with his hands instantly in his pockets, worried that the clerk might take him for trying to swindle.

"Sorry?"

"The Minnie Mouse earrings," The clerk was a tall man with owl-framed classes in an equally owl-themed bowtie. "They're Swarovski crystals." When Steve didn't respond, the man chuckled lowly. "Don't fret pal, just means that they're genuine, you know? They ain't diamonds, but they ain't trash."

"_Ah_," Steve forces the affirmative sound from the back of his throat like he's done this a hundred times before. Natasha once told Steve that he was genuine, and Steve wants the act of giving Beth the earrings to feel genuine—so he supposes it helps that they're apparently genuine as well. "Well, thanks." There's a slightly pause as the gift exchanges hands.

At the counter Steve finds himself actively glancing outside the frosty windows for Beth. The clerk himself hums "I'll be home for Christmas", which makes Steve feel a tad relieved for his lack of conversation. There seemed to be something about Christmas that made folks latch onto older times, and Steve recognized a "classic" Christmas song on the radio at least once every hour or so. When the clerk looks up at Steve from behind his spectacles, the tune stops. "Would you like this gift wrapped?"

"Hm?" Steve blinks at him, his attention refocusing at once. "Actually, yeah, that'd be really swell if you could."

The clerk smiles, his own green eyes reflecting back into Steve's in a knowing way. "This for a special someone?"

"First date, actually."

"First date and you're already buying her earrings?"The clerk takes the bill from Steve's hand with a flourish before bringing out change from the rusty register. "Best watch your wallet, pal."

The way that clerk says that suddenly makes Steve unsure all over again. He glances at the earrings and back at the door. "Do…you think that's too…ah…strong?"

The last thing Rogers ever wants to do is creep the poor girl out, but the clerk's eyes glow humorously at him. "And you should also have more confidence. These are cute—how could someone possibly be over-baring when _Disney_ is slapped all over it? Walt was a genius for knowing what would sell—and more importantly, what women would buy."

"Excuse me?" Steve quirks at the clerk's sudden use of a man's name. "Who?"

The clerk looks heavily at Steve for a moment, lips firming up in a bout of confusion.

"Walt." The clerk emphasis slowly. "Disney." He points hard at the table behind Steve.

Turning, Steve is nearly knocked clean over by the cover of a book that's set in black and white. It looks just like any photo he'd see back in—he reels in that thought—_Walt Disney: The Triumph of American Imagination_, the book reads back to him. Slowly, Steve turns back around to stare sheepishly at the clerk, who has already gotten the Minnie Mouse earrings beautifully wrapped in a package of simple silver with a gold ribbon. Steve's mind churns for something to say.

"You—uh, be careful out there, alright pal?" The clerk articulated awkwardly.

Steve nods again as he receives the coins from the clerk's hand, careful that their fingers don't touch.

The owl-eyed clerk has a strange stare that reminds Steve of Colonel Chester Phillips's disapproval, and it follows him long after he's left the store. Steve clears his throat loudly, picks up the parcel, and is out the door without another word.

* * *

_Another time - another place_  
_Our temperature would climb_  
_There'd be a long embrace!_  
_We'd do another dance,_  
_It'd be another play._  
_Looking for romance?_  
_Come back another day_  
_Another day!_

Roger, "Another Day", _RENT_

* * *

**AN:** There seemed to be a bit of confusion between if this chapter is commenting on Steve not knowing who Walt Disney is, or if he does not know Disney at all. Please pardon me for not conveying this idea properly, as it was pointed out recently. (6/16). As seen in chapter previously, Steve does indeed know Disney. However, *my* particular idea of Steve is this: He knows the company's name of Disney, and it's creator's name: Disney. The famous last name. It is true that Disney was huge during the 40s. However, it is also during this time that Steve is soon shipped off to war, is punching Hitler in the face 200+ times, and generally is not getting a in-tune connection to civilian life. This chapter, I proposed, is built around the idea that in today's public: Most people in America do know Disney easily by his first name, as if we're almost on a "first name friend" status with the famously deceased fellow. However, as much as Steve knows his last name, he did not know Walter Disney is Disney's full name. I found this to hold cheekily true to myself: I often can recall the famous *last* names of actors and shows from the 50's backwards, but never usually the first name. Perhaps it's a subtle detail, but this break between more generalized knowledge shows that when Steve takes one step forward, it's soon to be two steps back.

In other news:

I just saw _The Great Gatsb_y last night. It was a imperfect yet genuine interpretation of what folks want Gatsby to be- and for that, I adored it. I'm a huge fan of all of Fitzgerald's (the author of the_ The Great Gatsby_ novel) works, (I even share the same birthday as the guy, c:) So if anyone is thinkin' about not seeing in, it's completely worth your money. My friends and I dressed up as 1920 Flapper gals and classy gentlemen, and it was a gas! As we walked into the theater folks already sitting down started applauding for us. It really was a blast- so it just goes to show ya'all- stepping out of your comfort zone and really getting under the skin of another era is so refreshing. Anyhow- Kay out! Maybe leave a review so I can know if it's going okay, or down the tubes?


	10. Coney Island Cyclone

**AN**: Thanks again. After this first date is over I can work on the dramas and the feels-but don't worry. Their closeness can only grow from here. At some cost, I'd imagine. And oops- looks like there's some rocky business ahead. Want to find out what it is? Well, read on to find out!

* * *

What was it about that night?

Connection- In an isolating age?

For once the shadows gave way to light...

* * *

"There it is, the Spinning Cyclone." Steve announces as they get halfway to the dock. Beside him, Beth looks on in wonder. The pier is breathtaking. There's wraps of holly leaves, butches of bright crimson _poinsettias, _the wafting smell of hot dogs and hot cakes and other goodies all through the air. From across the way a muscular carnie man waves on with a brilliantly pink shade of cotton candy.

"Oh! Do you mind if we play some of the little carnivals games before the Cyclone? I swear, I haven't been down here since I was a kid."

Steve smiles, but his eyes remain suspicious over the rough looking mustached Italian man who's hailing them over to toss rings. "I hear ya. Sure, that sounds great. Besides, I think I know how to undermine their tricks this time 'round."

"Do you now?" Beth's voice changed into an octave of amusement. Steve cracked his fingers in front of him, accepting the challenge.

"I used to be a bit of a weakling when I was a kid. Pretty sickly, honestly. But now I've got a score to settle."

"Alright, well let's see that in action, Solider Steve."

Blushing, Steve takes a turn at the "Strong Man" hammer smash. In one good swing Steve manages to bounce the weight to the bell 15 times (Beth counts with her hand clasped over her mouth and by jumping up and down herself in sheer disbelief)—and then, like a tiny rocket, both weight and bell collided together, rattled through the air and into the black silvery water. The carnie gives Steve the evil eye, and quickly Beth and he make off for the next game, trying to hold back their laughter.

"_Weakling? _I don't believe that for a second."

"I'm tellin' ya, it's the honest to God truth!"

"You just broke that man's spirit _15_ times, Steve! 15 times!"

Steve sheepishly waves off the idea. _Well his great grandfather broke my spirit nearly 5 times that amount. What goes around, comes around._

"Okay, alright, I'll tell you what: you play the rest of the games, and I'll just watch. But if there's pulling anything funny on you, I'm stepping in."

"And by 'stepping in' you really mean you'll make them cry in shame from your amazing strength?"

"You're great at reading my subtext, Beth."

The next game is a get up of tossing a baseball to knock over a tower of glass bottles. Beth seems almost joyful that the game still exists. Steve believes her for certain now when she was raised on baseball. She grips the ball like a bro, hand perfectly lined to throw a _slider_ pitch of all choices. She leans her arm back to throw, but stops when she notices Steve's patronizing look.

"I know the score from even back then, don't you worry. But I think I got 'em beat this time."

She throws the ball with a burst of strength, but it crushes harshly against the bottles and slides down it.

The carnie gives her an up and down look that makes Steve feel surprisingly antsy.

"Darlin', I guess you're the reason why they call it a _slider_, hahaha!" The carnie's voice is deep and throaty as Beth huffs in response at him, but keeps her good humor.

"Again," She demands. The ball is tossed back.

Her eyes glide over to Steve, and a strange pulse shoots through his spine like she'd just called his name. Walking over, Steve eyes what her plan is. Beth smiles smally at him, and motions for him to help out, and soon Steve finds himself standing behind her, his right arm gentle at he holds her hand that curled around the ball. His other is carefully behind his own back, less he get the nerve to touch her waist.

"One," Steve's breath is hot against her ear. "Two," He leans their arms back, and—"Three!"

Faster than anything, they're both jerked forward, (Steve's careful to hold Beth in place and keep her arm in mint condition) and the glass bottles _smash _inwardly all at once like a bowler's strike, cascading into each other in a sharp ribbon-like waterfall of shards. In his arms, Steve can feel Beth holding in her chortling laughter. Without bothering for a prize, Beth tugs on his sleeve to run, clutching the fabric.

"The Cyclone!" She calls, "Hurry!"

Steve chases breathlessly after her, laughing more than he has in 70 years.

At the gate to board the ride, they stop to catch their breath. Beth is blown away by how far Steve can run, and yet only need a few gasps of air to be right as rain. Army training most of intensified 10 fold since her brother joined. Her hair twisted around her neck, running down her coat.

"When's—the last time—you rode it?" her thumb jerks to the ride.

It's been over decades and decades, a full bodily change and war, but The Cyclone still makes Steve's stomach queasy just to look at it.

"Oh man, it's been such a long time. When I was with my best friend, a long time ago." The laughter slowly drains from Steve's voice as they wait for Beth to breath normally again.

"Your best friend?"

"Yeah, Bucky," Steve's voice slows, dripping into a somber tone. "His full name was James Barnes." Steve leaned against the railing, staring down into the sea. "I'd known him since I was five."

"What's he like?"

"A troublemaker." Steve wanted to laugh, but he found it to empty to even try. "But he was brave, and kind—if he was here right now, he's be talking you up a storm. He had a way with women. You'd probably like him a whole lot. Everyone did."

Beth tried to smile, but the weight of Steve's words held it down, and she could only look on.

"I don't doubt his abilities, but you're pretty unforgettable yourself, you know."

Steve fought the urge to shrug like he had at Tony over something that was possibly true, possibly not.

Steve settled for a quiet "Thank you."

She approached the railing herself, her blonde hair whisking in the wind beneath the dangle of Christmas lights. The bulbs casted little bright spots in the water that blended and bowed with the crash of the waves, distorting the blackness of the bay. She let the moment wash over for what seemed like a long time.

"If you don't mind me asking, where is he now?"

"He—he was..." _Lost because of me._ "KIA."

Their shoulders touched as she carefully settles in beside him, each pair of blue eyes misty as the shoreline that crashed and swayed beneath them. Beth noticed how tight Steve's hands were along the rust of the grey-green rail, and slowly, without daring to make eye contact, and laid her hand over top of his. Steve's own crystal eyes widened briefly, shocked by a sudden warmth. He looked at their hands and he prayed that his weren't shaking.

"I'm…I'm so sorry. Um," She fumbled briefly, her lips wind-chapped red, trying to find the right word, or the right timing. A soft silence passed where nothing came from either of them. Eventually, Beth tried to press forward.

"If you don't mind me asking again," Beth's voice was respectful, yet hoarse over the breeze. "Was it Iraq or Afghanistan?"

Steve blinked, his mind turning for a moment of confusion before he realized that this was the moment where he had to stop pretending this was 1938. This was 2013. This was reality.

_Wake up_, a voice whispered coldly him.

Carefully Steve's thumb traced across the bottom of Beth's palm, feeling the soothingly warm, yet worn skin that was equally soft and equally tough to his own, possibly from a time of working as a waitress, no doubt. Self-consciously Beth shuffled beside him, but she couldn't bring herself to shyly pull away like she wanted. She was stunned; the way his eyes were taking in their paired hands was…so…

"Honestly," Steve's timbre voice dropped low and soft. "It's pretty recent, and yet." He paused again, and Beth watched his adam's apple bob sentimentally. His eyes were at the sea again, passive and distant. "It feels like a thousand years ago."

Beth's eyes felt heavy, overcome with weakness of just watching him, the blue of his eyes, blond of his hair, pale of his skin, fading like the clouds passing overhead, perpetually in motion, imploding, directionless.

She often felt that way as well, engulfed by the sky, cast out by the sea. Blue, upon blue, upon blue in their eyes, reflected out only into the colour of sadness.

"Steve, I'm so sorry," She shook her head slowly, the long tendrils of her blonde hair shifting gently against his shoulder, and she wanted to press herself into him, to stop him from—from disappearing again out to sea, but she couldn't. She just couldn't break that barrier so quickly. "I know that's probably all you hear anyone say, and I'm sure that…that means nothing to you."

She gripped his hand tightly for a moment, squeezing some of her will into his hand before she carefully pulled away, but suddenly Steve stopped her by grasping her free hand with his own. She blinked in surprise almost as much as Steve did, and there they stood on that dock in December, held together by the impulse that Steve Rogers finally allowed to move from within himself into physicality. They both stared at their hands again, and it was Beth's turn to trace her fingers across his knuckles, feeling the chasm that seemed to exist between each finger, each bone tough and lean.

"No," Steve began softly, his breath showing in the chilly swirls of the air. "No. Thank you, Beth, really." The blue of his eyes seemed sad and lonely, but something seemed to stir within their depths, and it made Beth smile against all the pain she suddenly carried in her chest. "You'd be surprised how much no one pays attention to…" He cut off again, his jaw tight.

"It's okay. I'm not going to lie to you Steve, I've been fortunate enough to have never lost anyone. But, I've seen some kind of suffering." Beth replied hastily, as if now the words were spilling out of her in white clustered patches of tangled emotion. "I mean, I see it too. People who aren't directly affected by such a tragedy, but I see it still. All the time at my job, at my apartment, in my nightmares. All those people? During the attack—I just." She throat felt pinhole tight, and she struggled to not gasp for air.

She pulled her hands away from Steve swiftly, curling her shoulders in vainly withheld embarrassment. "I've never been to war, but I _felt _like I was going to die that day. And, and I—I think I _watched_ people die that day—and now I see what's left—day in and day out, I see people struggling for reason and to make sense of what they've lost." She looked Steve fully in the eye. "Of _who _they've lost, and I always think: 'Why me?' Or, I think that it's _only_ me."

Beth's chest rattled as she took in a deep breath, eyes searching Steve's somber expression for any type of rebuttling, but she only found that he was listening. Listening like no one else ever seemed too. "But," She faintly continued, her blue eyes brilliant and direct into Steve's. "I see people that I serve at the café, and I look them in the eye and _I feel their pain, _and I _can't_ forget. Every day, I am reminded that I'm not alone."

Steve paled for a moment, and Beth felt a thin layer of sweat line her palms as the silence pressed between them. Something dark passed over Steve as he considered her words. Something shadowy and it made him shiver.

_Alone. A customer, all alone. Is that what this is? Was this all…out of pity? Is that what she saw when she looked at me? Is that…why?  
_  
"Is…is that why you asked me out?" Steve's voice came out nearly empty. "You think I'm some kind of sympathetic nutcase lookin' for compassion?"

_"What?"_ Beth's eyes widened. His question was like a slap to the face after all she had confessed. "No! Of course not!" She shook her head fiercely, her eyes bright. Suddenly she stepped forward, nearly wanting to stand on her tip-toes to meet the blondsoldiereye to eye. "I asked you out because I felt something towards you—that—that—" Beth felt hot tears stick to the corner of her eyes and she felt stupid all over again. "That maybe you lost something in that attack too! I look at you and I see someone that's maybe just as lost as I am."

Steve's mouth opened to reply but no noise came. He tried again. Again. Finally: "Beth, I—"

But by then it was too late. She could see it all in his eyes though. He didn't _believe_ her.

"This was a mistake." She quipped icily, her rage and her despair bringing a quiver to her voice as instantly the thought of going back home to her cold apartment rushed to her. To cry herself to sleep over the _ache_ the rang through her chest like funeral bells; bells that shook New York's memorial services that reminded her that she survived to go back out into the world and suffer all over again._ She_ was the mistake. She was useless—to her brother, her parents, those wounded by the Battle. She couldn't help anyone. What could she give? Was it really pity she was giving after all? Couldn't anyone else see that she just wanted to give compassion—to share—to share in—something? Maybe she couldn't be a hero like the Avenger that saved her life, like her secret idol that was Captain America, but she had to do something, right? Was it so wrong of her to try?

She just wanted a connection.

Beth's teeth clenched as she turned on her heel, marching away, not trusting herself to look back because she's never told anyone that before, not a single friend, nor her parents, or the police or her pillow her greatest fear like that, so quickly and numbly and _stupidly_—and knows she'd just burst into tears and _she'd_ be the nutcase.

The distance along the dock stretched further and further between them as she left, a woman shaped flurry of soft coat buttons and rippling yellow ribbons that were tattered and discolored in the wind. The wind pushed back at her but she kept on moving, her face tight with frustration.

When this wind hit Steve, it just damn near knocked him into the freezing Atlantic Ocean, and, had he been less than a genetically alerted super solider, he'd gladly let himself drown there. A pair of eyes were struggling to open in the back of his mind that made his head ache and his teeth grind, but he forced them down.

_Wake up_, the voice said, louder.

He put a boot forward and began to chase after his future.

"Wait!" He called out to her, just as he had in the café which seemed so long ago, and suddenly he had caught up to her fast paced footsteps uncannily quickly, their shoe prints echoing in the snow behind them, intertwining. He reached out fast—fingertips barely touching the fall of her hand, and the heat from her body nearly _burned_ him from the inside out in shame. "Wait, wait, please!_ Please_ wait!"

"I'm—I'm the lousiest date ever. I know that, I understand, and you have every single right to walk away right now. I promise I won't follow, and you won't see my face ever again." Steve confessed to her back, his chest heaving, not from exertion, but from the anxiety that had been eating him alive for nearly four months now. _Just like I told Peg's friend on the phone_, _he'd never hear my voice again_, Steve allowed a whip of depression to chill through him, hard and fast in its pain, and then he pushed it back together again. _I'd disappear, believe me, if I only knew how._

Disappear? What are you doing? Wake up, wake up!

The voice practically hissed at him, and Steve swallowed hard, thinking, but it continued:

_Say it. Say it even though it hurts. You don't have to tell her everything. But you have to give her something of yourself._ _She gave a piece of her to you, and she's practically a stranger._ That same voice whispered inside of him.

_So who are you, Rogers? What can you give beyond the mask?_

"I'm—I—just—But…thank you," He decided. "I think I needed a dose of reality—because I—I often I find myself thinking that I'm not just lost; I'm lonely, pathetic and useless. But, my God," Steve slowed down his speech, words tumbling and wrapping together in their excited passion. "But if someone like you—" He slid his fingers into between the spaces of hers and nervously pulled her closer, closing the distance so that they stood only a foot apart. "—could look at me and—and see _passed_ that—could see…that there's something more beyond that, well, I'd be a complete fool to watch you walk away right now."

He then dropped her hand, remembering himself, and he flushed nearly as red as his sweater.**  
**  
"But I'll let you." He added dryly, stepping back, allowing her space.

She stopped. Slowly, Beth turned to look at him, the blonde swirls of her hair plastered and damp along her cheeks while she stood there, shaking in her boots, bewildered, and her hand feeling strangely jittery from where he had touched her.

"I didn't mean to offend you, Steve. And I didn't mean to drop some over-dramatic bombshell on you, either," Beth blushed as well, glancing away offhandedly. "It's just…I haven't had this much fun in such a long time, and laughed, and talked and just…yeah. Talked. And I guess I just let myself get carried away. I think I say really stupid things sometimes that normal people never would."

"Well, from what I've found these 'normal' people walk around and pretend like the earth wasn't just invalided by aliens a few months ago—so, I'm glad. Please, don't be like them."

She smiled softly, bringing up a gloved hand to discreetly wipe a frozen trail of moister from her face. "You too." She added simply.

He seemed to grimace at that. "This may sound really cheesy of me to even bother saying trying this but: could we start over? Er, maybe?"

Beth's smile became bigger, and she glanced at her own boots, feeling silly, considering.

"Okay." She added chipperly, after a moment of watching the man before her look more and more concerned. "But only if I introduce myself properly this time. I'll—just lay everything across the table for you to see, so we can both run in the opposite directions if we want. You can jump into the ocean and I'll ride the Cyclone till I die."

Instantly the soldier's memories exploded like a firework in his mind, and Bucky Barnes was before him—his best friend, and they were just dumb kids sneaking onto the Cyclone one night—but soon the image faded to pitch, and it was soldier Barnes, and Captain America, standing side by side, overlooking a mountain crevasse, waiting for a train that would change everything between them.

_"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?_" Bucky's dark eyes strained to look at Steve over the ice in the wind, and the pulling maw of the pit below.

"_Yeah, and I threw up?"_ Steve answered, the memory all but unforgotten like the taste of vomit that would come up later that night after he'd try and drink dry an entire destroyed bar to forget about this moment, and any second, he'd ever shared with his best friend.

The black scalp of Bucky's messy hair shook back and forth, his voice tight in awe. "_This isn't payback, is it?"_

Steve smiled then, perhaps for the last time in 1943. _"Now why would I do that?"_

Steve's smile slowly made itself way across his lips. "Alright." He took a step forward, and extended his hand formally_. Give just a bit. _He reminded himself_._ _Anything._ "Ma'am, my name is Steve Rogers, and I'm absolutely awful when it comes to talking to women."

Beth couldn't help it. She laughed. "Hullo Steve. I'm Beth, and I believe I'm slightly neurotic with stress issues."

Steve smirked at her, and mustered up his best impression of the legendary lady killer that was his best friend. "Well, Beth, if I may be so frank. Would you care to get lost with me tonight?"

Her eyes glittered mischievously. "Pretty smooth line for someone who's terrible at talking to women."

Steve shook his head, the exhale from his nostrils misty and fading behind him, like her words were a blow to the face. "I learned that one a long time ago, but I'm glad it's not in bad taste." _Bucky, buddy, if you could only see me now. What would you say?  
_  
Beth walked closer, keeping her fingers out of reach and just watching the way Steve padded carefully alongside her, like she was a ribbon-and-buttoned-up fawn he was meant to frighten.

"No." She glanced at him, scrutinizing the stylized cut of his hair, the nervous brush of his lashes when he blinked, and decided that she liked what she saw, as well as what she felt. "Not in bad taste at all."

Steve swallowed dryly at her, unsure of what was to come of this.

_You'd tell me I'm a stupid wreck._

* * *

_For once I didn't disengage.  
_  
- "What you Own", Roger, Mark,_ RENT_

* * *

Review maybe? Just a few tiny words? Or a kudos? Or to throw a piece of fruit. Remember everyone: I like peaches the best. ^^_  
_

**AN**_**: **_So they've had their derpy adorable date—and now the real action can begin. I hear a certain doctor wants a word with Steve. As well as a black-haired narcissist—and—a strange best friend of Beth' , for those of you keeping track of the _RENT_ songs here, I've come to the Kay's-a-dummie conclusion that I'm running out of proper songs to title chapters with, so I do believe I'll relable them. Don't worry, nothing is going to change or alter, but considering how long this fic is, I'll just have to accept that I'll need other musical mediums to work with. But still, this fic is heavily _RENT_ inspired. Thanks. C:


	11. Beth's Morning

**AN:** What's this? An update already? Inconceivable! But really, thank you SO very much for the thoughtful reviews. So what happened after Beth and Steve's first date? Did more happen? And furthermore, what's her best friend's reaction? Oh boy. Girl sure seems like trouble.

Fun trouble.

* * *

My friends are waiting -

* * *

All around Beth, the world seemed to be spinning. Colours melted and merged, faces blurred in and out—metallic horses with clothy saddles laced with bells danced along the outside of her, wispy coils of manes that were whirling and splintering faster and faster. They lashed at her cheeks, raining down lightly, but were getting progressively harder. Soon the hairs were pelting her arms, leaving long stinging gashes. From under her skirt the floor was rumbling, throaty like thunder. A tight earthy mist seemed to be lingering through the air—and she was laughing. Laughing at it _all_. Laughing harder than it seemed she ever had in years, and it made her chest hurt. To stop the pelting from the closing in ponies, she wrapped her arms around herself, so tightly that she could feel the bone of her ribs. And she couldn't stop laughing. But it hurt. Each peal left an ache in her throat, rattling her lungs. There was never enough air—and it hurt. Everything hurt. She wanted to scream. To scream for someone to stop. This ride wasn't fun anymore. She wanted off. _She wanted off._

And then, as if sadistically granting her wish, an explosion ripped across the cloudy raging sky. She was falling. It had torn open the eye socket of the blue atmosphere to gush out in waves of black. An army of black. Black. Black and red. Raining down, hitting her in thick drops of warm liquid. Beth closed her eyes, her laugher turning into terrified sobs. The air ripped and cracked through her ears, and the horses below seemed to be screaming for her, groaning in loud churning rows of some poor animal being slowly ripped in two. The horses of her childhood were dying all around her.

Soaked in the sticky warmth, Beth forced herself to look up into that hole that seemed to open up into nothing, stretching on forever and forever. It was like she was being sucked up into it. She twisted, pulled, screamed but only the horses answered her. She was flying further and further away from them until they looked like a crowd of dying people, staring up at the sky, right back into Beth's eyes.

_Help me_, she wanted to cry.

_Save me_, she wanted to plead.

But she could only look on into the inky blackness, swallowed up like the little blue marble of the earth would be in a very large game of fate.

No one was coming.

She turned one last time to look down—one final time before she would be gone from everything.

And she recognized someone in the crowd, beyond the panic and the screaming of colts.

_Steve._

He was perfectly calm, staring back at her with his blue eyes as pale as the sky. Slowly, he reached out his hand up above his head.

For her.

She tried. She reached out her arm, fingers stretching back. She wanted to go back. She didn't want to disappear. She didn't want to die. She stretched, wiggled and cried but she couldn't touch him. As much as she wanted him, she couldn't _reach._

Suddenly, Steve's hand wasn't open for hers anymore. Something was in it. Something that shimmered and its light hurt her eyes. She struggled to keep them open, but it burned straight back into her skull, and it _hurt_, _everything hurt_ and suddenly, she was plummeting back to the earth. _And she was going to die. And she was going to die. And she was going to—  
_  
Beth woke up in a sweat, sheets tangled around her legs and arms like a boa constrictor made of suffocating hot. Quickly she unwrapped herself, sprinting to her bathroom before she was sick.

Again.

She sank against the cool round lip of the toilet, careful to make sure that the pads of her feet wouldn't slip on the cold linoleum floor. The bath along the wall was a pale blue; the wallpaper printed in sea shells of periwinkle purple and luscious light green. The sink, shower head, and shower curtain was decorated with baby turtles. It struck her just now how hilarious it was that she had never seen the ocean. Just movies and cartoons.

Everything she promised herself that was soothing from her childhood meant nothing as she vomited. No colour therapy worked. No amount of shades or animals or talking seemed to do anything but prolong just one more hour before another anxiety attack.

God, she just wanted this to _stop._

When she was finished she splashed the icy chill of water from her sink, pasting the messy curls of blonde hair to her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy, her nails clenched. Her rib cage festered inside her, lips nearly blue. She coughed again, leaning her forehead against the mirror. This was getting ridiculous. She'd have to go see a therapist soon, or _something._ What if she'd done this with someone around? Beth sucked in a breath, barely able to play with the idea of holding herself together with someone watching.

She knocked her head against the smooth cool glass. _You're such a freak. That someone might've been _Steve._  
_  
Late last night—(or, really, it was more like one o'clock in the morning) Steve had walked her back to her apartment. As they stood just outside the stone stoop that led to her dark green door, Beth wondered about taking the date further. She quickly threw the thought out—as she instantly feared that it would be taken a thousand ways than what she really wanted. It had been a while since she had tried dating again, but anytime it got beyond her door step she'd be submitted for the awkward: one night stand, or not to one night stand? (She knew she'd never have the nerve to call anyone she instantly slept with on the first date back. Like, ever.) (Hint: for any of the scumbags she actually attempted to date, the answer to that age old question was always _to one night stand_.) Beth wasn't too stuck up about kissing on the first date—but she definitely didn't put out just like that. She was lonely, sure, but the end of those dates often led to the Beth staring nervously as she'd squeakily explain that she really _did_ mean _company and coffee, now please put your shirt back on_.

She shook her head at herself, hair twirling a soft white-yellow in the dim Christmas glow of her holly-wreath, squat and round, which was eyeing the pair like a weary chaperone. Why did she put up with such losers before? She sighed. She knew exactly why. And it wasn't healthy. Or fair to any guy she was desperate enough to cling to. After the attack, it was more that she just didn't like being in the dark alone—a sure fire great opening line to tell a potential date that _Sure, we can lay down and cuddle and I can finally sleep, but I've got pepper spray in my undies drawer, so help me God._

Steve's blue eyes regarded Beth's headshake with a sudden panic stricken alarm. Was he being some creep by lingering outside of her flat for too long?

"I had a great time tonight," Steve said, grasping for a proper way to leave before he made it worse.

He thought about leaning up against the railing around them, thin black bars that pointed upwards into spear points, but decided against it. He'd probably prick himself on trying to be smooth. "Thank you very much for asking me out." He chuckled at his phrase. "I wouldn't never guessed that gals do that kinda thing. I guess I'm sort've old fashioned in the sense that I always thought it was all on the man."

Beth's smirk parted again, coldsnap red. "I can't even manage how much pressure that must lay on the male species."

"Exactly. It's a little relieving to tell you the truth. I probably would've never had the nerve to ask ya." Steve admitted sheepishly. "Or well, it would've taken me three times as long."

"Better late than never, as I hear it said."

Steve's smile seemed to soften. "Yeah. Very much so."

He glanced at his wrist watch, wanting to cringe once more. Beth knew that look already. She'd seen it about ten times since midnight rolled around.

"Stop apologizing for keeping me out so late! It's okay!" She grasped his own wrist, pulling his arm down. She started to laugh. "You're incorrigible!"

"But it's just so _late_. I had no idea it had gotten so _late_. And it's freezing—and you're probably sick of me following ya around and—" Steve defended, trying not to let his 'motherhen' side show but that was a losing battle from the start.

But really, he was pretty upset with himself for not being more conscious. No proper gentleman escorts his ladyfriend home past midnight. Ever. It's a rule. He swears by it! Well, unless… well they're foolin' around. And he supposes that they were. Without touching too much, and—God, what if the other Avengers were waiting for him?

"And you've told me this like, nine other times." Beth giggled. Steve sighed out deeply, the fall of his shoulders overtaking the light for a moment, and the shadows hid his face. A strange chill ran up Beth's spine when she looked at his covered face. Déjà vu for some reason. Weird.

"I'm sorry, you're right."

She let her fingers continue to cradle his wrist, and she squeezed playfully. "It's nice to know you care. And that chivalry isn't dead."

They stared at each other again, locked like that.

For a second time that night, Beth fought with her mind. She was almost depressed over the fact that she was going entered inside alone—without him. He didn't suggest going inside—not even to get warm after the freezing hike, or for coffee—or anything. Not even a hint. It was like he was oblivious to the notion of it. But she knew she couldn't blame her selfishness on him, because well, to be fair, Beth wasn't even sure now that she made it clear that she wanted Steve to come inside anyhow. The date was incredible, but she just knew she'd be freaking out over if she'd thought to clean the living room enough, or if the bathroom wasn't too….childlike.

Reluctant, Steve had to pull away. "How about I call you tomorrow?" He then paused, a chuckle of a whisper on the cold wind escaping passed Beth's ears like a moth's flying rustle. "I mean, later today?"

_Call._ Beth's heart pounded and sunk all at once. She'd heard that line before—but there was something about the nervous way in which Steve asked it to her that made her feel as if he wasn't pulling her leg. He seemed worried at the idea, that was clear, but it seemed so…genuine.

"Please do, soldier Steve." She rose up her arms, faking an upward stretch which made Steve extremely aware of how her body must be moving under the thick fabric of her jacket, and he glanced away. She yawned into it, and a small hand covered her mouth. "Oh—I'm sorry, um, how about I turn my rudeness into a hug?"

Steve chuckled again, grateful that his blush was hidden by the night fall. He stepped forward to embrace her, instantly taken back by how nice it was so hold someone so close in his arms. He tightened his hold, even so lightly, just to make it last longer. He wanted it to be like a squeeze so that Beth would maybe know that he appreciated her for so much more than he could possibly ever say to her—or to anyone. He really liked how she felt so close to him. Warm, dense—not too fragile—and God, she smelled _amazing_. Was it possible for someone to smell that good? Her perfume must've wafted off hours ago—but Steve was so pleased that his super sense of smell kept it around.

The hug was over too soon, and a familiar ache creaked into both their hearts.

"I really hope to see you soon, Steve."

The super soldier nearly shivered over how she said his name, just his name, once more. Just for him.

"You too, Beth."

From the dim light cascading over her bedroom, a muffled chime trilled into the bathroom. Instantly, Beth felt her heart clench. Someone was calling her. Quickly, she smoothed back her hair and darted into her bed, flipping overly stuffed pillows and blankets until her hand smacked something hard.

"Hullo?" She had the receiver so close to her ear it stung.

_"So, you gonna spill, or do I have to come over to_ _tip you myself?"_

Hearing her best friend's snarky voice made Beth feel instantly better.

"Ronda, don't you know me at all? Of course I'll spill!"

_"Does he have a nice ass?"_

Beth blew air from her nostrils in a puff of dismay. "Is that your top priority in a guy?"

_"Shouldn't that be everyone's top priority in anyone?" _

"Ronda, you're insane."

_"And you're from where again? Kansas?"_

"Oklahoma?"

_"So what, you're tellin' me that Aunty Em isn't your aunt? You lied to me!"_

"Ron," Beth snorted, trying not to feel cheered up. "You're still crazy."

_"Well, you don't see me insult your flaws either, Miss Oklahoma. You can't help that you're from ass-backwards nowhere."_

"Actually, you do that a lot."

_"I do not—!"_

"You did it just two days ago at work!" Beth jested back.  
_  
_There was a pause, and then a snort. _"You know that's how I tell you that I love you, Princess Buttercup."_

"I hate that nickname. You're insufferable."

_"Nah, that's just friendship. Made of insults, ice cream, and telling your best friend about your hot date!"_

"New York isn't the best place to be, you know. What about San Francisco?"

_"You take that back!" _Ronda slowly emphasized every word.

"Ronda—"Beth sighed, exasperated.

_"So, _does_ he?"_

That finally made Beth laugh scratchily. "I don't know!" She threw an arm above her hand to express this, as if Ronda was right in front of her. From her reflection in the mirror she wanted to crawl back into bed and never leave it. Her blonde hair was stuck everywhere, sweat everywhere, makeup still dragged in lines across her tearducts. She quickly shoved her hand back down. "I didn't look."

_"No worries,"_ She could hear the curl of delight in Ronda's voice. _"I'll just have to look for you."_

Beth paused, biting her lower lip for effect. Ronda caught on fast. _"What is it?"_ She synched.

"He said he'd call me today."

_"Really?"_ Ronda purred. Her tone suddenly darkened. _"Oh no, you don't think he—"  
_  
"I wondered that too! But, Ron, he seems so sweet. Like he means it. I mean, I hope he does. I think he does." She told herself. "I did…mess up, though."

Ronda froze. _"Girl, you didn't."_

"No!" Beth jerked the phone in surprise. "No, I—I didn't flip out." A pause. "Okay, maybe a little." She whispered.

_"And by 'a little' you actually mean?"_

Beth thought fast—deciding to skip the dramatics of their first sort've fight on the boardwalk. That was embarrassing enough—and God, who would believe something like that actually happened?

"He never seen 3-D before, and so I took him to that 3-D premier booth, right? And well, I… scared him."

The silence was palpable. Then, Ronda started to laugh—throaty and secretive.

"_Ronda,_ it really isn't funny! He turned white as a sheet! He…he mention that he just got back from military leave. I…I worry that I may have trigged something PTSD in him..."

This sobered Ronda up. _"PTSD?"_ Her tone upturned sharply. "_Beth. You listen to me now. Now, I feel all the compassion for this guy, I really do. But you're my best friend first so…please, be careful."_

"Ronda, don't judge! He's perfectly controlled. Just…well, seeing him…like that. It reminded me of me."

_"I know Beth. I know, hun. I just…you hear things, you know? The world is even fucking crazier now. And I just can't protect you from everything. And PTSD is very, _very_ serious. Just, keep that in mind, okay?"  
_  
"Well," Beth's voice lowered into a sad whisper. "You know that I think I have something like that too. Do you think this is a bad match?" A hand flew to her throat. "Do you think I'll just upset him more?!"

Laughter answered the blonde. "_Oh no, you two perfect. Now you both can be neurotic together. I may just have to meet this guy. What did you say his name was again?"_

"Steve. Steve Rogers."

_"Well open up your door, the former date to a Mister soldier Steve Rogers. I'm here!"  
_  
Beth glanced around one last time, spiriting to flush the toilet before padding to her front door. It flew open to reveal the stark platinum fo-blonde—this time her hair was massively gelled up into short curls that ended in splits. Her eyebrows reminded captiously undyed, forever announcing to the world that the freshest coat she was sporting was indeed not her natural colour. Her face was round, nose pieced with a tiny red fax-ruby, lips always curved slightly out like she was perpetually disappointed in everything. Everything, it seemed, but seeing Beth. She jumped straight into a hug, pulling the smaller blonde to her with overwhelming strength. A purple long sleeve tee, and pre-ripped jeans cut at the knee bounded against Beth's bare legs.

A tickling sniff near Beth's neck made the blonde giggle and squirm away.

"You even _smell_ like a man! I can't believe it. How long has it been since you've dated someone?"

Beth wanted to shrug, but simply shivered at the open door. The pause seemed to spark something in Ronda, however.

Ronda gave her an obvious once over, a dark brow inching upwards. A grin plastered to her face instantly. "Is he here?"

"What?" Beth's eyes narrowed in surprise.

She trusted an arm across Beth's doorway, pushing herself dramatically into her living room, neck snapping this way and that like a hottie homing missile. Which, more or less, Ronda was. "You're _hiding_ him?"

Suddenly, it hit Beth like a smack to the back of the head. She leaned against the plump arm of her easy chair, a hand sagging through the sweat tangles of her yellow hair. "Oh—Ron, no."

Ronda continued in, slamming the door shut but grasping up Beth's arm under hers. She pulled the blonde girl towards the kitchen. "You sly dog! You _totally_ got laid last night!"

"No—no, no,"

"Oh don't be so modest girl, you can _tell_ me!"

"Ronda, it's not like that—"

"It sure looks like it," Ronda declared as she dragged her way into Beth's bedroom. Her eyes drained over the crazy state of Beth's queensized bed.

"It's not!" Beth finally yelped, pushing herself away from her friend's embrace. That got Ronda's attention quick. Beth's face flushed as she sighed. She pulled both her hands to cover her face, breathing.

"Whoa. Okay. Alright." Ronda's green eyes were cautious. She reached out a ways, lightly rubbing Beth's arm. "Nothing happened, I get it. I'm—I'm sorry." She ran her arm up Beth's shoulder, leaping it to her wrists to revel a watery blue eye. "You know I'm sorry." She emphasized, looking at Beth dead on.

"Well," Ronda edged out, worry lining every contorted alarm on her forehead. "What did happen, then?"

Beth simply pointed to the bathroom. Ronda didn't even have to wrinkle her nose to guess what that meant.

"Oh honey, again?" She pulled Beth against her side, sitting them both on the edge of the bed. "But didn't you have a good time? On the phone, you made it sound like a good time."

"It was a great time. I just…can't help what I dream."

Ronda's face seemed to shatter, her lips sucked in with fear. Slowly, she blew air out of her nose, rattling the ruby. "I know that it doesn't help, but it's not real, okay? What you dream isn't real, and nothing is going to hurt you." She laced an arm around Beth's shoulder. "Not while I'm around."

Beth sniffed, trying to stay in one piece for Ronda's sake. The white hair of Ronda's wooshed by as she suddenly place herself right in Beth's face.

"They think that Hulk guy is scary, huh? Well sister, they ain't see _me_ angry yet."

Beth snickered. "He's a good guy, Ronda. You don't believe what they say about The Avengers, do you?"

Sighing in defeat at her attempt of humor, Ronda sat back down on the bed, wiggling the mattress. "No. Of course I don't believe that crap. They saved us. The entire city. Destruction happens at a price of money. Not a price of who should be to blame. Blame never helps anything."

The pair was silent for a moment in thought.

"You know what's really scary?" Ronda turned, elbowing Beth in the side lightly.

"What?"

"You were _this_ close from Captain America." Ronda pitched her fingers close together into a tiny measure of space. "Isn't that crazy as hell?"

Beth flushed, a hand twisting her hair. "I don't try to think of it all that much, really."

Ronda felt around for Beth's hand, pulling it from her hair. "Arh—what I mean to say is, does that help, like, at all? Thinking about how they're out there to save us? How close he was to you? Any kind of comfort? Ringin' a bell, here?"

This time Beth gave a wimpy shrug. "Sure, sometimes. But…even The Avengers can't save me from myself."

Ronda leaned back, making it a point to take them both down so that they were lying across the messy comforter of Beth's bed. "Okay. So, dream about the Captain." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "I know you do."

Beth chuckled, pushing at Ronda's stomach to get some space. "Lay off!"

Ronda pushed back, tickling Beth's side. "Fine! You can borrow Iron Man then. I'll allow it."

Beth snorted, sending some of her blonde hair flying into her own eyes. "Ronda, he's totally taken. It's legit now! Don't you read _Esquire_? _Glamor?_ _People _magazine? He's dating his secretary."

Ronda paused. "You read _Esquire?_ Isn't that a bro magazine?"

Beth flushed, tossing a pillow at Ronda's face. "It's a good magazine—shut up!"

"And actually, she's the CEO now, gosh, Beth. Keep up." She winked at her. "But yeah, alright, so maybe I give into that main stream garbage that you read." She wrinkled her nose at the very idea. "But only for Tony. And it won't last though. I bet you anything."

Beth rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "You're an imaginary home wrecker, Ron."

"Just like mama raised me," She stuck out her tongue. "Okay, so I think it's time we go out for ice cream to celebrate me actually thinking you got freaky last night."

Beth shoved her aside gently, heading to her closet. "Sounds like a plan."

"And," Ronda added darkly, springing up from the bed with vigor. "I get to meet this dude soon."

Beth stuck her head out of the depths of her closet in a rush. "But he hasn't even called yet—"

"Soon he will! Very soon!"

"Ron—"

"It's going to happen. Don't fight it Princess."

Beth's sigh was audible from the closet.

_"Someone's_ gotta check out his ass for you!"

* * *

_You're cute when you blush-_  
_The more the merri - ho, ho, ho!_  
_And I do not take no!_

- "You Okay Honey? (the Street)", Angel, Collins, RENT

* * *

Maybe, if you've a second, please drop me a tiny review? A few words, once more? Please? It just means so freakin' much, and I swear, it honestly makes me write faster. Like. Whoa bro. Slowwwwwbrrrrro. (Sorry, I've been playing Pokemans lately. c:)

**AN:**

Thank you SO very much for the extremely thoughtful reviews! Now we get to see more of Ronda, Beth, and—did girl just say she's gonna meet Steve soon? Stay tuned for when Steve gets home from his date. Someone is waiting for him…


	12. Steve's Confrontation

**6/27. Sorry for the delay, guys! Thank you SO much again. It's just that my summer classes are half term, and so I struggle with projects almost every other day, and it leaves very little time for writing! NEVER FEAR! Expect an update very soon. c: Thanks again!  
****  
AN**: Thank you SO much you guys! I can't believe this story is nearly at 50 reviews. That's amazing to me. Thank you! Please enjoy! The reviews have LIFTED my soul so much. Thank you, each and every one of you. It means so much. Some of them are pretty lengthy as well, I just can't even you guys. Thank you for enjoying my romps with these two. And thank you all for giving Ronda and Beth a chance. Many mentioned how their conversation seemed very realistic, and I blushed so strongly at that kind of praise. I'm so glad that so many came away with such a feeling. That's the best compliment I've gotten towards writing fragile non-established character trait dialogue.**  
**

So Steve's returned home. Let's get the foreshadow ball rollin'.

**note:** I've also run out of appropriate RENT song lyrics that apply right now for the upcoming situations. Do forgive the change ups.

* * *

"And I can't go back,  
Moods that take me and erase me,  
And I'm painted black."

* * *

The dark maroon reflection shadowed Steve's ascent into Stark Tower, frequently teasing the corner of Steve's eye to glance backward to check that no one was actually following him. Thinking himself completely idiotic, he allowed only one glance behind himself while edging up the final stair towards Tony's elevator doors. The slowly dripping chunks of ice that were leaning off of the wide windows of the tall building answered him in a ghostly footfall. The icicles outside the silver doors absorbed the golden yellows, bright green and cool neon black that hummed from the city below it. As beautiful as they were, he didn't like looking at the shards of melting ice for too long. One angle made the water glisten and shimmer in explosions of bright colours when they touched the ground; they were miniature frozen fireworks that lit up Steve's walkways. The later angle made it look as if the ice flow were tears, the echo of their fate softly touching Steve's ears like a sob—breathless, scared, anticipating.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the sound, flexing his fingers. They were cold since he had left Beth's door, but not even the deepest of the snow fall, or the burningly cool metal of his motorcycle's handlebars seemed to damage the pulse of heat that simmered at the edges of his fingertips—like every squeeze that Beth pushed into his skin was reviving a tiny heart beat at the base of his thumb. But soon he noticed it getting faster, and faster, and _faster_ with every forward step. He braced an arm against the pane of the side door, and leaned against it. His heart was beating so hard that he felt breathless when he finally knew he had to walk back through the Stark Tower doors. He never knew how to describe it. It was dark and heavy, that sat in the pit of his stomach and ached itself _raw_.

Doors usually did it to him. Sometimes empty rooms. He felt the worse by going back to his room, but it wasn't just there he felt uncomfortable. He didn't like sitting around in Stark Tower alone. He took him a month to realise that about himself, but it was the hardest thing to admit. The first sense of dissertating change. He didn't like being alone in the most complicated way he had ever known.

When he first woke up, when S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken him back to the hospital base and explained all that happened, he was told that his body would be "off" for a while. That he'd have to be careful about simple things—if there were too many people in the room, or if a sound was too loud. And for a while, everything _was_ way too loud. He could hear them whispering about him through the walls as if they were _stage shouting_. Knew that they had watched him while he slept. Knew that they watched him the whole time through. Temperature was tricky as well. His nerves were mixed. Confused as he was from being over simulated or too numb to realise he was hurting himself. He'd reach for a cold drink and he was shocked at just how freezing cold it was (and how he hated cold. He _despised_ cold.). Even the pads of his feet were too sensitive for a while against moving too far—socks or no. He'd burn himself without realizing it, or nearly get himself twisted in the sterile shower curtains when the water reached beyond a lukewarm level—it felt searing hot to his back. But even then, those were bodily ticks that faded over time.

He prayed that he was the same person that went under as when he woke up. That, if everything in the universe shifted, at least he'd remain the same to himself. But keeping that idea was exhausting because it unnervingly was not true.

He was changing for the worse. He knew he was depressed and numb and raw at the seams for himself as a person. He rejected any inkling of friendship as much as he found he craved it. But it was a selfish kind of addiction. A complication. He didn't want friends. He didn't really want someone to talk to. He didn't really want a hug or a smile. He just wanted to be surrounded by people that had purpose and lives so that waking up every morning didn't feel so painful. People went on. Life went on, even if the window that Steve was watching from, frozen, never did.

Because once you wake up and find that everyone you ever loved is dead, your body never trusts itself again to think that they're safe. You could blink and they're gone. You can't get close to someone without the unfailing idea that they'll never leave you. And so he went on. Craving people, craving friendship—and sulking away at the slightest attempt at kindness towards him.

There were some things, however, that Steve could not escape from. Mainly, S.H.I.E.L.D. And, with that, General Fury. Fury insisted that Steve keep active. Insisted that he force a relationship with the rest of The Avengers. Insisted that Tony take in the recluse from his apartment, to both of their great objections. Fury was just about as insistent in everything as much as Steve was entirely passive—his only defense towards the process. Sure, he'd take the order, swallow it down like sourest of cough syrup, but he wouldn't feel it. If Steve could have his way, he would never feel anything again.

The Avengers changed that, however.

Steve didn't want to admit the thin tendrils of attachment that he was feeling towards keeping a team safe. It started protocol. Lead, take charge, report damage. But when Clint took a shard of glass to the face, when his blood is pouring across Steve's closed fist, the pressure changes. You can't play with knifes and not feel the weight of what you're holding. He could avoid getting cut, but the weapon is still in your hand. And so it goes on. He realized that Loki had some kind of disturbing logic to it all.

They were all lost in some ways. But, to Steve's dismay or not, they were finding wounds in each other.

The whole notion of actively seeking companionship was new to Steve. He knew he was a quiet kinda guy. He knew that when he wanted someone to talk to, _back then_, he'd find Bucky or some kindly fella at the drugstore to chat to. But he enjoyed books, radio, drawing, and hating it when someone was looking over his shoulder while he'd attempt to do so.

And, hoping against hope, Steve vaguely wondered if someone was _really_ waiting for him. His knuckles curled. He'd spent so much time just waiting around to wake up again. Waiting around to disappear, or maybe just run to the farthest edge of the world and jump off of it. But he had…frie—teammates now. He had…something close to a home. A place where people expected him to show up. And, with that, came where his teammates were curious to where he would be.

The whole night it had been eating tiny shards into the niches of his brain that Tony would appear, out of the blue, loud and jerkish and ostentatious as ever, and somehow ruin his date, but he didn't. He swore that perhaps around every corner Natasha was waiting, her emerald eyes careful and glittering, but she wasn't. Steve hated feeling all the contusions he did for his team. He cared for them, he truly did, but it was hard to keep it simple—because life had thrown him the biggest curve ball of existence, and he had to face the fact that he wasn't going to wake up again. He had to face moving forward. He had to face it. He cared for his team. Now it was hitting him. Now.

He… liked it when Natasha made a point to actually track him now—she broke into his apartment of all gestures. He enjoyed it when Clint would invite him to hang around on the living room couch and Steve would educate himself through Clint's rambles about what recent culture was "trash" and what sports teams were top dog and actually answer Steve's media questions without guile. Although at first he shielded away, he understood Thor's compassion towards feeling like he was from an entirely different world, for it was Thor that asked most about the differences between past and present—relentlessly hungry for any new idea that helped him conceptualize earth like a normal human would. He'd go as far to say that he'd probably miss Tony's complaining about the large amount of people in his house—but that'd be stretching it. But, If there anyone that he felt he could do something for, it was Bruce. He related easily. They would both just sit there in silence and read. They didn't say much to each other, but Steve never pushed it. It had gotten better after the attack, but no one was nearly so close with the Doctor than Tony, but Steve didn't mind at all. It was just nice to know he could sit in a room with someone and just be. They didn't need to talk or pretend like everything was okay. The only time he could get his selfish fill of existing through other people.

Slowly, Steve straightened himself out and listened to the soft _woosh_ of the panel doors sliding open. The elevator lifted, dropping his stomach, and he forced himself to calm. _Ding._

Darkness greeted him—almost like an old welcoming friend. The halls were tall and quiet as he padded through, grateful for the heat that seemed to be holding the entire building together. He walked slowly through the kitchen, the square timer on the sleek looking black oven read out to him at 2:42 am. He ran a hand through his startlingly damp hair, gathering snow slush in the process, and wiped it off on a dish towel before tossing it aside. It was much later than he'd be active for than usual, even if he would just lie in his bed and make better acquaintances with the ceiling tile. He figured it might just be from walking around in snow storms for several hours, but he just wasn't tired at all.

He carefully felt around for his mug sitting in the dishwasher when he noticed a gentle glow of a lamp radiating from the circle of the living room. Slowly he put the handle down, eyes zeroing in. The dark had fooled him. He thought he'd escaped it. He thought he didn't want someone to know—but Steve's insides seemed to twist in worry at the idea that he suddenly really wanted to tell someone what had happened tonight. And that—for one time in his life, Steve wasn't coming home just to sit in the dark and wait for morning to return. Someone really was waiting for him.

And then the feeling recoiled—he twisted to look back at the clock and weighed the odds that the only reasonable idea of who would be up this late—that most likely would be awake and about, anyway—was Tony. Steve suffered in a breath, pulling back up his mug.

_Okay. You don't need to tell him anything, but you gotta have a purpose for being up._

Grabbing some water, Steve quickly took a gulp of it and headed towards the light in the living room. Winding around the long black couch, Steve stood in surprise. The lamp was on, but the recliner's seat was empty.

"You look…wet, Steve." An amused voice came from behind the soldier. Steve jumped as he turned 'roud, and a bit of water splashed onto the chest of his sweater. Sitting on a black leather chair of an opposite facing lamp was the last person Steve expected to be up. Bruce Banner. He was still wearing the slightly wrinkled dark purple shirt, collar folded out, a few buttons missing. His legs were crossed at the ankle, one hand propping open a book. The golden light from the lamp twinkled off the edges of his glasses, but overall, Bruce seemed just as surprised as Steve—his mouth tightened in response.

"Ah—I didn't scare you, did I? I'm sorry," He fixed his tight closed-mouth'd smile lightly, "I suppose a voice coming from behind you in the dark is a set up for a terrible horror movie, isn't it?"

Steve rubbed at the damp spot on his sweater, pressing his heart back inside his chest. "No, really, it's fine."

Bruce's dark brows settled calmly, but his eyes seemed suspicious. "You sure?"

Steve breathed out hard through his nose. He sank down onto the couch, scratching under his jaw for a moment before he finally allowed what he thought in his panic. "I uh. Figured that you might be Tony."

Bruce leaned back, a thumb smoothing over his stopping point in his novel, pausing for thought. "No, Tony would never be so quiet. He'd never be able to contain himself. Guy's one of those plush monkey toys with those symbols that smash together this time of night. Any time he gets some inspiration—_Tshh_! Monkey business."

Steve smiled slightly, imagining Tony as a wind-up toy was easier than it seemed. "If you say."

Steve drummed a finger over his mug, and he glanced over at the book in Bruce's hands. It's cover was light yellow read: _The Worry Solution_. Steve's smile grew wider as he leaned towards it. It looked familiar even from a distance, but now he knew. He'd _read_ that same book before. It was apparent that Steve's gratification matched the grin on his face, as Bruce quickly glanced at his hands, flipping the cover over self-consciously.

"Oh—the book. Yeah. Well." He gave a small shrug. "They say reading makes you sleepy, so I thought I'd give it a try."

"And is it?" Steve couldn't help himself.

"Honestly, it's wholly ironic that this book is called _The Worry Solution_. It just keeps stressing me out." Steve broke out into laugher, but Bruce managed over it, his voice equally exasperated. "I keep looking at the time thinking: Okay, how many minutes since I started reading that last chapter? 15? 30? God, it's just keeps getting later! I'm _never_ going to sleep at this rate!"

Steve nodded, his shoulders rising with every chuckle. "I had that exact same problem when I read it."

Doctor Banner's eyes flashed coercively as he smirked at Steve. "You've read it before?"

The blond cleared his throat—took a sip of water to collect his explanation of just how many self-help books he'd tried to read that really only make him feel worse. "Yeah—well, you know. Reading is supposed to be soporific, so I pick up whatever is at the library—the self-help section is usually crammed full of books that no one checks out, so I figure that I'll be the person who tries."

"Soporific," Bruce repeated. He seemed impressed.

Steve tried not to flush at the institutive praise. "I learned that word from another book that was on how to fall asleep easier," Bruce raised his brows at him, waiting for him to finish. "…that didn't help me sleep at all."

Bruce low hum seemed to carry his understanding. "Well, between you and me, I didn't think anyone else attempted 'self-help psychobabble.' So, I'm glad. We'll have to exchange reviews on the terrible books we've read."

Steve grinned, his eyes bright. He actually managed to tell someone that he read self-help books, and he wasn't getting a bit of flak from it.

"Between you and me, Doc, the only psychobabble around here is when Tony suddenly stops speaking in English and gets into tick-tock-technological gobbledygook."Bruce smirked again, thumbs still working at the page in his book. Slowly, he stood up, and made his way towards the seat near the lamp, but seemed to be having trouble deciding in exactly where he wanted to go. He turned and padded towards the kitchen, but stopped once again.

"Steve," Doctor Banner stood off to the side, one hand gently holding the book to his chest. "I stayed up because I couldn't sleep, but also because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you of what happened the other night. About Tony." He swallowed and pushed the nose of his glasses a bit as he chose his words carefully. "I don't think any of us had ever seen you so upset before. It surprised us, rather. And I think it also surprised Tony. I have an idea that he wasn't trying to actually cause trouble."

Steve let out a bitter chuckle. "Stark, not actually wanting to cause trouble?"

Bruce rolled his eyes, although no one could see him do so in the shadows. "I think he was actually trying to help you. Steve, I don't think you're aware of it, but you've been extremely withdrawn lately. To a level where it may seem that no one cares, or notices that it's going on—not even yourself. And believe me, I should know what that feels like." Bruce's shoulders hunched themselves. "I know Tony can be arrogant, but I think he just wanted to get you to share what was going on inside of you."

Steve simply stared skeptically into Bruce's statement, and the doctor sighed. "In his own unsparing way, of course."

"Help?" Steve's jaw snapped shut over the word. "I highly doubt that." Steve could still see the billionaire's outline, the traces of too much collogue, drink, and dark black eyes that raked Steve's walk of shame all the way down the hallway. "He made it very clear to me that was I was doing was unacceptable—and he had no idea what it was about anyhow!"

Bruce's mouth set itself sternly, his body suddenly very still. "What were you doing?" He asked slowly in that same calm tone.

_Well,_ Steve thought, _if I'm going to have to eventually tell someone, it might as well be Banner. He seems understanding enough. _"I…met someone. And tonight I went out with them. It's uh, why I'm getting in so late."

Banner's breathing seemed ghostly in the room. Steve had to strain himself to keep track of where Bruce was, because now the physicist seemed to be moving very quickly. He put down his book on Tony's coffee table. Tossed a pillow aside on the couch, fixed the slightly bent shade of a lamp, and finally just stood still. And Steve seriously thought that for all the nervousness the guy possessed, he certainly knew how to be still. Steve could feel his anxiousness running his mouth aggravatingly dry. Was telling Bruce a huge mistake already?

"Doc?" Steve asked tentatively. Bruce was quick to reaction; a full twitch of his muscles, and he responded.

"—Right, I'm sorry, Steve. I'm sorry." The doctor's voice shot out like a frightened punch. "I just." Fingers were picking at the collar of his purple vest. "I just didn't expect that. At all."

Steve's brows furrowed. "Well, I'm sorry…I think."

"No, no, no," Bruce's head shook firmly. "Don't be sorry. That's wonderful to hear that you're not nearly as bad off as—well, as I worried you might be. I was planning, honestly, to talk to you tonight about why you're feeling so withdrawn. Because I can relate to that." He paused, and the silence seemed so very loud. "But this is certainly a change to that plan."

"Do you not go out with anyone as well, Bruce?"

Bruce's eyes closed briefly as he thought. "Not for a very, very long time."

"And did other folks then think it was…unacceptable?"

"Steve, you have to understand that our situations, although correlating, are not the same. The… organizations that knew about my…condition…believed that it was wrong of me to do anything but hide. S.H I.E.L.D. forced that idea upon me until I realized that even I couldn't disappear forever." Steve's felt a tremor run through him over the word 'disappear', like an icy finger up his spine.

Doctor Banner sped into silence again, forcing a breath. "There are many things I regret in my life. I regret my father's passing. I regret that you weren't around to tell me that trying to duplicate the Super soldier Serum would destroy my entire future. But the one thing that I would forever change if I could take just _one_ thing back would be that I was too selfish to let go. That I didn't listen to them. To anyone."

Bruce crammed a hand through the dark waves of his hair, knuckles tightening. He forced a breath. Then another. He turned away, but kept his eyes trained to the window, the noiseless passing of traffic that spiraled, lost in the depths of his sad brown eyes.

"And you have to understand that things go wrong for people like us, Steve. Things never go according to one plan. Sure, it starts because we make it go off like an explosion. But it levels out our world when we can't stop it. And ends with S.H.I.E L.D. cleaning up the fall out. Someway, somehow, the ones we love get hurt the most when we're suited up. Because we can't ever give them _normal._ "

"So we're just like everyone else." Steve pressed. "Normal folks hurt the ones they love when they're themselves as well."

Bruce's dark eyes jumped to Steve's in a furious flash, his voice like a whip of frustration that steamed out from his mouth. "You learn the hard way that it's never going to be that _simple_, Steve. We_ can't_ be ourselves. But when you try to force that, and people keep telling you it's going to go all wrong, and you don't listen because…because you'll give anything for a chance that'll prove they're wrong."

Steve felt like had entered into whatever Clint said was "The Twilight Zone". A loony place where Doctor Banner was talkin' up a storm that pelted Steve with too much information, too fast about his _past_ of all things. Steve wanted to let him keep going. He wanted to learn more. But the grave look on Bruce's face told the soldier that things had changed, and he'd missed such an opportunity. Steve cleared his throat loudly.

"But were they right?"

Another deep breath. A cross over that line of numbing emotions. Bruce's dark brown eyes seemed to go on forever into their depths, haunting and cracking into layers of forced patience.

"Yes." He added simply, his tone hard. "They were."

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat that was working on suffocating him. "You said that our experiences were different, though." He tried not to let the desperation he felt colour his tone. This couldn't be happening. After such a great time. No. This couldn't be it. This couldn't.

"Yes, I did."

Steve's blue eyes seemed to hunt the darkness, desperate for a single phrase of hope that Bruce felt no one would ever look towards him for, and it pained him deep inside his chest to see it so clearly on the younger man's face. "And you think they'll turn out just the same?"

Doctor Banner sighed noiselessly; the mess of his brown hair shaking like the physicist's disapproval took place at a dead cellular level. "If I could give you one piece of advice," Bruce's broken laughter cut up his words, "Advice. From _me_." A hand gripped through his hair. "God, this is not what I wanted to do tonight."

"I'd take advice from no one else," Steve allotted with a good guy smile that Bruce felt was too kind to mean any sense of truth. "What's the advice?"

The physicist's gaze lingered over Steve's slowly, contemplating. "Don't hide." Bruce finally managed out, his voice sounding even quieter than Steve had ever heard it. So raw, and sad. "Don't hide yourself, and don't hide the friend you made—in any way. Because—"

Steve nodded firmly, his eyes tight. "Because once you start running, they never let you stop." How long had he been since he said aloud his own mantra? It felt good to hear again.

Bruce's fingers tightly strongly over the cover of his novel. "_Never_," he whispered.

A stretch of quiet passed where Steve practically felt them both breathing as one. Both tired. Both scared. Both worried.

"Thank you for the advice, Doc." Steve licked his chapped lips, smarting at the sting in them. "I promise that I'll do my best to do as you say. But I'm not going to give this up. I know you don't like it, but I really feel that if you—"

Bruce turned abruptly to face Steve, already keenly aware of what the blond was leading towards. "Not me."

Steve blinked, startled. "What?"

"Don't bring them to me. I—" The doctor's thin grimace locked like a slammed door. He breathed out slowly through his nose, and tried again. "I'm sorry. I just meant that if you bring them here, I'm not going to meet them. Natasha, first, maybe. Barton. Even Thor, if you're feeling that adventurous. But not me."

Steve took a step forward, puzzled that the one Avenger that understood his secret wanted nothing to do with it. "Bruce—hey, hold your horses. Why? If this is about The—Other guy—"

Bruce looked at Steve, long and listlessly. "Usually, yeah, this would be entirely about him. But, strangely, it's only partly. I'm not trying to be mean here, Steve, but if you insist on doing this, know that I can't. I just _can't._"

"'Can't?'" Steve repeated, stunned. His brows furrowed roughly. "Can't you tell me?" Steve deliberated, bewildered at the sudden turn. "Please?"

"No." Bruce shook his head. "I'll help you if I can from a distance, but otherwise no. And don't ask me again." Fingers flickered at the scientist's collar, tugging and biding time. Dark eyes stared out into the rushing colours of the New York nightlife, completely blind to it all. He sighed. "I hope you never understand why I can't meet her."

Steve blanched. "Her? Who said it was a her?" He suddenly felt just as defensive. "Could just be a friend, like ya said."

"Well, you've got a bit of lip stick on your collar, Captain. Pardon me for insinuating."

Pink rushed to Steve's cheeks as he glanced down to find that somehow Beth's mouth must'va touched his neck. He covered it quickly, blotting the colour into the red fabric, embarrassed. He felt like a complete idiot now. What kinda fella walks around with lipstick all over his neck on their first date? Steve glanced to Bruce expectantly, waiting for the heckling. Thank the _Lord_ he didn't run into Tony before noticing that. He'd never live it down.

Steve held up his hands, expiration lining his explanation. "It wasn't like that, I swear. We didn't get into heavy petting—during the cinema she must've rested her head on my shoulder and—"

Now this made even the most elusively nonplus, emotionally stagnate Doctor Banner _laugh_, and that seemed to break the dense atmosphere between them. He laughed loudly, as well, a strange light sound. Steve flushed again through the darkness.

"Relax. I won't go busting your chops when Tony never lets up. I won't say a word."

"Thanks," The relief he tossed into every letter was practically tangible, and it made Bruce chuckle softly once more.

"He really gets to you, doesn't he?"

"Unnervingly so," Steve muttered, glancing at out the windows. "Not all the time. But when he does." He flexed his fingers, remembering how he wanted to smash the wood of his door, the pictures in the hall, the metal in the bathroom, Tony's _teeth_ in. "It's… bad."

"Heh," Bruce nodded appreciatively. "Would it help any to say that he feels that same way when it comes to you?"

"I'd never believe it. Not even from you, Bruce."

The doctor shrugged. "Well, that's the idea. That's Tony's whole plan. Pretend like nothing ever bothers him, and everyone will believe it to be so." Bruce's head bobbed as if agreeing with himself made it entirely true. "But, like the rest of us. It does. Eventually."

"Is it wrong if I still want to deck him?" A dark edge clung to the curl of Steve's voice at his confession.

"If you look closely, I promise you can see Tony beating up himself inside." Bruce retorted drily.

"Never had the pleasure of gandering that image," Steve surmised thickly. He shook himself of talking about Tony any further. "Thank you again for your advice."

"Don't mention it, Cap—by the way, since we're going into it and all. Was she the one that called your cellphone at dinner?"

Steve almost wanted to ask _someone called my cellphone?_ when it hit him. He reached into the pocket of his pants. Once he found the device, he poked the keypad. "Actually, no. I dunno who that was. I don't recognize the number."

"Hm," Bruce said conclusively, a hand resting on his chin. "But do you have _her_ number?"

Steve smiled ever so slightly. "I do. But only on hard tact. Think you could help me put it into my phone? I have it memorized anyhow, but I told her I would call her, and having it in there is faster, right?"

The doctor couldn't help but smirk at Steve's expression, part amusement, part surprise at how long it'd been since he'd seen Steve look so delighted at anything.

"Sure, Steve." He reached out his hand for the cellphone. "But first things first: what's her name?"

* * *

_You have suffered enough,_  
_And warred with yourself,_  
_It's time that you won._

- Falling Slowly, "Once"

* * *

**AN:** For all the Intensiveness in this chapter, I really struggled NOT To label it: "The Self Help Book Club". H'yuck, I'm hilarious. But Damn. Poor guy. He...means well. Ah.**OH! Also**: For anyone that is interested in any of the events that Bruce is referring towards, do check out my other Bruce/ his love interest Betty Ross/The Avengers centered fic on my profile. It's called **"The Count Down".** Those feels, man. (also I love my self-help book humor. and monkeys. um. I used to work in a Barnes and Noble while I was in high school, so I have a TON of physiological book humor.)

possibly let me know what ya'all think? c: It just makes my world. Even a single ounce of a word about what you think.

So it looks like Brucey is gonna help out. Maybe. Er. If he can help himself. So now that one Avenger knows...well, we know how word travels. Let's see what happens next. I have a feeling that Beth and Steve will be seeing each other very soon...


	13. Tony's Pretend Midnight

**AN**: How about a few lovely updates guys? Expect at least three. Thank you SO much again for enjoying, for those that are justing coming in, and those lovely faithful readers, I adore you all! So… let's have some fun action. I hear a fight is going to happen soon. Have some fun Tony and Clint madness and adorable Steveness. (This chapter was so funny and sad and heartbreaking for everyone involved to write and I just. bromance scenes. All of them.)

* * *

All talk of circadian rhythm,  
I see today with a newsprint fray.  
My night is colored headache gray  
Daysleeper.

* * *

"Good mor—"

"No."

Clint's mouth smirked dryly. Even from his view of the open kitchen, he could already see that Tony had activated the graphic shades along every window to show to him that it was a little past midnight somewhere in the Caribbean. The vague misty outlines of skinny palm trees swayed, their whispering rustles tossed through the living room's speakers. Pixelated clouds of soft white sand shifted in the breeze. The outline of the sky loomed dark and starless. Clint shifted the silver sports flask to his lips, took a brief sip.

"You do realise that it's—"

"No. We're not talking about it."

"Tony, give me a break. I don't like being up this early just as much as you do."

A blue shimmering circle rebuked from the shadows with a crippling _hiss._

"Barton—you're ruining it—you're killing me, here. Just. Just humor me. For God's sake. It physically hurts me to move right now."

Clint sighed into his next sip, coffee sloshing through his teeth, mute in warmth and slightly burnt in taste. That was the last time he trusted Thor in attempting as he put it: "domestic elements of bonding". The pair, one standing, one half way-laying, half-way sitting on a recliner chair, was silent. A soft cry of a gull floated somewhere to Clint's left, about ten feet from where he stood.

"Okay. I'll bite. Where are we?"

A click at five feet away—Tony's fingers flicked the holographic controls towards the windows, undoubtedly. The entire beach rotated outwards—they were soaring far into the moonlight clouds, bobbing up and down like a balloon let loose into the sky. Clint's brows furrowed tightly, checking his mental mapping of exactly where all the major cities of any tropical island setting he could muster. In his training he acquired a bodily taste for location, an inch for topography. It was that, or he'd never be able to call himself a master marksman if he couldn't align himself into perfect positions for his protocols. The more puzzling and isolating, the better.

Except for when he wasn't _actually_ there. All things considered…Clint found it slightly disorienting.

"Really, Legolas? Not a clue?"

Another sip. Another pause. "I hated that book in high school." Barton deadpanned. He didn't really care about Tony's jabs. If anything, it was just a way of conversing on a level with Tony that few chose to rise to. And Hawkeye flew to that challenge. He also developed the best defense plan for it when it was far too early to think of something just as cutting to say.

Don't acknowledge it.

"And I'm sure Tolkien would've hated you right back, buddy." Clint could practically hear the smirch in Tony's voice. "He wasn't a fan of modern warfare. The whole damn series is supposed to be some parable for how technology is ruining human nature. Pfft. Ruining human nature. I do that just fine on my own. Without the suit."

Clint's blue eyes strained to see Tony's expression in the darkness. "I'm really glad that you don't normally wake up this early. You sound just like my junior year English teacher. God, that guy was an idiot,"—suddenly Clint shook his head, wanting to laugh at what he talking to Stark about. "Are these the brilliant thoughts of Tony Stark after hours? The contemplation of children's literature?"

Another click and the view shifted back to the ocean front again. Chilly waves crafted the twist of the beach line, running for miles upon miles of inky charcoal-coloured sightlessness.

"Children's literature, existentialism, the universe silently exploding outwards until we eventually freeze to death in a few eons. That is, of course, if other alien races don't mutilate us first. It's all the same after a while, isn't it?"

"Maybe I should send you back to bed."

"Shh. We're pretending it's still midnight, and I'm actually wide awake, remember?"

"Whatever sinks your ship, Tony."

"That's the spirit. Sea humor, I like it."

"I think that 36 hours without sleep leaves you in a state of finding everything funny. Believe me, I should know. On a deployment mission, just before heading out to New Mexico—you know, where Thor's hammer fell? I stayed awake for 57 hours. By the end of it, the only phrase I could make sense of was Colson muttering something about never being able to decide between frosted or powdered donuts. I just started _losing_ it over donuts. Freakin' _donuts_. " Another sip. "That's when you know you're gone big time. He never let me live that down."

A quiet thump sounded near where Tony's low laughter seemed to echo as Clint finished, and ever so lightly he could make out the shape of Tony lying face first across the carpet.

"I don't need to carry you, do I? Because that'd be a pain. I always thought that was Pepper's job."

A small circle of blue light took a laser thin outline along Tony's ceiling as the genius rolled onto his back. It shimmered faintly with every breath Tony took. "You're quick in the morning, Barton. Too quick for me. I don't even know if that was a prick at my relationship or the way Pepper runs my entire business. Probably both."

"It's both."

"I knew that I didn't know it."

"So we callin' this thing off? These challenges?"

Tony heaved himself into a sitting position—only to smack back down on his back. "Oh no, this better damn well happen. I didn't get up for nothing. I was actually sleeping, if you want to know the truth."

"Really?"

"Mhmmm," Tony sighed dreamily from the floor. "I was such a sap to think I'd actually make it an entire night."

Clinton's brows rose at this. "We mentioned it to you two days ago that this was happening."

A snort from Tony's direction, the blue circle wavered slightly; large vertical shadows blocked it out, shifting and retreating. "Shit. I thought I'd be able to make shadow puppets with my fingers on this thing. I mean, sure it keeps me alive, pays the bills—but just think of the possibilities if I could make _shadow puppets?"_

Clint blinked. "Right. It's because you don't listen to anything reasonable. Silly me for forgetting."

The room went nearly pitch black for a moment as Tony covered the Arc Reactor in his chest. "Uh, correction here, I actually do listen to reason. The problem is that usually what's reasonable to other people means absolutely nothing to me. For example: I have no valid reason to think that I'd be any more sleep two days ago than I was yesterday. Insomnia's a bitch for normal people, but to me it's like imagination juice. And it just so happen I ran out of it. So I switched to another juice—and I was out like a light. It. Was. Glorious."

"I really don't think blacking out substitutes for normal sleep."

"You're right, Katniss. It doesn't. But Kahlúa substitutes like hell for Imagination juice. Speaking of which, you want any?"

"Nah. I prefer my coffee a little less functioning alcoholic in the morning, thanks."

"More fer me," Rising from the floor, Tony padded directly for the kitchen. A slight chime was heard from the counter top as a metal cup bounced across the smooth surface and rolled just out of Tony's grasp. The crisp trill of liquid melting into a glass. Soon, Clint had a neighbor that was standing next to him, and they each mutually took a sip at once, both staring into the charming, island moonlit night.

"You know what's interesting, though." Tony added, after a few seconds, because God forbid two guys just be quiet for a while in the morning. "I'm up." He pointed to himself in a flourish. "You're up." A finger towards Clint. "You want to know who isn't up right now?"

Clint's blue eyes batted through Tony's knots of black hair that struck the billionaire's face, making them hard to see, but Clint was sure Tony's black eyes read out to be two things: blood-shot, and terribly amused.

Barton huffed out his chest in an attempt to gain more time to observe around himself. "Try me."

And then Tony simply pointed outwards, and down.

Now, Clint Barton would consider himself a pretty sharp guy. Sharper, more handsome, and definitely able to pin you to a wall at 600 yards. But for the life of him, he earnestly had no idea what the hell Tony was pointing at. And when it came to directions and targets, Clint _always _knew what was being pointed at. It was his job.

Clint padded a few steps forward, toes edging silently as he followed Tony's lead, suddenly aware that whomever Tony was talking about was apparently in the room with them, and it knocked Clint off center to not already know this information. He hated it when his acute temptation for distraction got him off course. Especially considering that the most marginally distracting member of his entire team had found out faster than he did.

The sleek black cloth around the back of the living room's couch seemed to lock arms with the darkness of the entire room. Even Tony's calming background of palm trees and filtered, artificial moonlight couldn't shred an ounce of light on the area. He'd have to get closer. Tony stopped midway, a smile of deliberation on his face as he waited out Clint's own reaction.

Pressing his waist against the back of the couch, Clint slowly lowers his gaze from Tony's to find himself staring down at the lump that was taking up most of the seating. He tilted his head, and ever so slightly he saw the tiniest fraction of something yellow—golden, even.

"What the—is that _Steve?"_ He nearly yelled this, but managed to shove his question into a tight whisper.

Ghostly chuckles shook Tony's frame, and he nods appreciatively. "It surprised me too."

A strange minimal fit of annoyance traces itself up Clint's neck—like he wanted to crack it, but it won't give.

"You knew that he was here this whole time?"

Tony gave a small nod, smile plastered to his lips. "Sure did—hey, don't gimmie that look!" Tony's whisper turned hot in defense for a moment. "It wasn't me that found him like this."

Clint's eyes craned back to Steve's figure, and, with complete concentration he can actually get an idea of Steve's body. Still completely dressed in a sweater, belt, and black pants the blond had stretched out along the cushions on his stomach—although the wide cross of his shoulders created a teetering effect, as if he moved just a hair more and he'd fall off the thin plane of the couch. He was half way hidden under a light white sheet that looked like it had been stolen from a properly made bed somewhere in the Tower. One arm tossed loosely off the edge, hanging down awkwardly, trailing through the carpet. The other was wrapped tightly under him, ending with a large hand popping out against the collar of his shirt, almost as if he was gripping at the back of his own neck.

Speechless for a second, Clint found himself confused on what to feel. He'd never seen Steve asleep before, out in the open and looking so…vulnerable. It wasn't that it was too terribly shocking—but it wasn't exactly a well hidden secret that Steve hadn't been…himself, for a while. And, of course, Clint knew that probably came at the price all of them suffered at the end of the day—just…well, Steve's day started and ended with the same memory that…everything he knew was gone. Clint shifted his jaw uncomfortably at the thought. He felt for the Captain. But he didn't have a clue on how to even begin to talk about his own horrifying experiences. Let alone trouble someone else's.

Eventually he settled for what he was sure Tony was thinking himself.

"That looks ridiculously uncomfortable. Why isn't he in his room?"

Tony's dark eyes zeroed in so hungrily that Clint swore he could see rearing mechanical horses behind his eyes, nails for teeth chomping at a neurotransmitter bits. A classic Stark ramble was coming on.

"Well, listen to this. So I come up from my lab around 3 'something this morning, yeah? And as I make for the kitchen I cought a glimpse of Bruce sitting in the living room, reading of all things. And, of course, he isn't one to stay up as late as I do, so when I went to call out for him and I got the_ iciest_ look like you wouldn't believe—yeah, from Banner, I know! So he gets up and asks me to follow him back towards the bedrooms, nonchalant as hell, only to tell me that he'd found Steve passed out in the living room and he didn't want me making a fuss about it."

Clint's smirk reappeared, and Tony fought the urge to scoff at it. "I wouldn't have made _that_ big of a deal about it, give _me_ a break." A pale hand wavered weakly to motion towards the sleeping solider. "I mean, Christ, I didn't think Ol' Spangled Annoying here _slept_. But there he was then—and, shit, well, I guess we have to stop playing house now, Barton, because it's 6 in the fuckin' morning and here he is now."

"I suppose that's a little weird. Given how reclusive the guy is. I get the idea he doesn't like being watched." Another pause for a sip, trying not to seem like he was buying time. "If you know what I mean—" Clint added, a touch uneasily.

Another flippant hand wave that stirred some air near Steve's face.

"Yeah, I read the S.H.I. E.L.D reports. But, honestly, it isn't even him sleeping all stone cold badass like in the living room that I find strange. It's the fact that he's _dressed_ and he's asleep at six o'clock in the morning when he's usually up, killing everyone with those charming baby blue farmboy eyes of his, and now he's suddenly _not."_

The muttering between the two men seemed to bother the solider. They both froze as a small noise of defiance half heartily murmured from Steve's mouth—before he turned his head to face back towards the cushions, nuzzling into the soft fabric. Tony snorted at the slightly heartwarming sight.

Clint took another sip of his coffee, finding it bitter.

"And what do you care, Tony?" Clint asked as softly as he could, nearly mouthing his words.

"He's been acting weird, Clint." Tony allowed with a strange dark strain on his lips, equally silent. "I don't like it."

"You're paranoid." Clint mouthed sharply.

Bloodshot eyes edged around Clint's brutal stare.

"I am _not_ paranoid," Tony mouth-retorted slowly, over-expanding every syllable.

"Yes. You are." Clint began, leaning away from their playful banter before. To prove his point he slightly gave his words a horse pitch. "Leave Steve alone. So he went out. He deserves to have friends."

Clint took a step back from couch, giving another shot at cracking his neck. It was really bugging him now. Tony stayed exactly where he was, brooding over Steve's figure.

"Friends." Tony paused shortly. "Like the regular ones we all have? Friends, Barton?"

Slowly, Clint turned back, his eyes tight. "We're all friends—or whatever. Team mates. Close enough. Steve—he's so young. I think we forget that. He's like—23, 24? Seriously. We can't just expect him to—to be with us all the time. Half that time he looks he doesn't want to be anywhere. Maybe he found some place to go. Someone to be with when he doesn't have to be with us." Clint's nostrils flared, his words spinning out with more a bite than he liked. Where was this coming from?

From the couch, Tony's hard glare continued to drain the compassion from the air.

"Do I have to spell it out for you? He's lonely, Tony. For something we can't give him."

"For something we can't protect him from, you mean."

Clint paused, his icy blue eyes wide. He titled his neck and triggered a sharp, satisfying _crack.  
_  
"No. I don't mean that at all." Slowly, Clint took a deep breath. He found Tony's black eyes in the darkness, red streaked and obviously trying not to show how worried they were.

"Tony. What happened to you…when you went through that…void…the Chitauri. No one was prepared for that. But we know Steve. He's freakin' Captain America—he's survived World War 2, I think he has a head for danger. I think he knows what he's putting at risk. Pepper, Jane—well, Natasha can easily protect herself. Hell, we don't even know if he's putting anything at risk. At all. Maybe he just had a late night. Maybe he doesn't sleep for days, just like you, or me."

Clint found himself out of breath, and he let the suffocating feeling sink in deep.

"Sometimes Tony, we have to live with not knowing."

For a moment, Tony seemed to ease at this—but then that moment was gone, replaced with a grim hard tightness around his jaw. Clint's eyes narrowed again. What _was_ this? He'd never seen Tony looked so… scared before.

"There was a time when I thought I had a head for danger too, and that I knew what I was risking. But I was wrong." He pulled his entire gaze to Clint, fractured at the bone. "I don't want to be wrong again. Am I seriously the only one that thinks this is a bad idea? Re-think about it. He's Captain America. Still sort've naive to our time. Still completely alone, without us. And still one goddamn kick ass of a motive to get at. Someone could be trying to get him. To get to us. It's just—" Tony blinked hard. "I don't mean to be an asshole all the time, Barton. But he's just been so shut in lately that I thought he was _one thin_g I didn't have to worry about. Just one thing I didn't have to _think_ about. Now it's changing, and I honestly have no idea what to do about it. And I need to know what to do. And it's scaring me. This doesn't scare you? Not even for a second?"

Clint's eyes snapped closed. He curled his fingers tightly around his flask. "No. No—you have a point. Now I'm worried about it too. I mean—it is strange—we've all noticed Steve acting…basically nonexistent. But the way I see it Tony, is this. Steve's young. I know he doesn't act like it—I think we can all feel the emotional aging that he's been through, just when he looks at us. But he is young—and he's the only Avenger member that wears a mask. An actual mask. He can hide himself out there. The public doesn't know his face all that well, and S.H.I.E.L.D. does one hell've a good cover up for us anyhow. And speaking of which, Tony, there's something you gotta face."

"What is that?" Tony asked lowly, his eye still tangled in Steve's gentle breathing.

"You _chose_ to reveal yourself. You had a mask as well, and you took it right off in public, and you sucked up the attention—but now you're taking all your anxiousness out on Steve, the most easily hidden out of all of us. He didn't make you take off your mask, Tony. It's not his fault for what you did. It's not his fault that you had to take that bomb through the tear, and it's not his fault that you're a publicly known hero."

Fingers rushed through the sharp crew cut of Clint's hair as he spoke, suddenly frustrated at having to tell Tony any of this, as if he didn't already know. But _dammit_, it someone had to say it, he supposed it'd be him. "I think the only thing Steve chose for himself was to become Captain America. And even then, we know he had help."

With that grim waxen glare across his face, Clint found himself side stepping back over to where Tony stood, one eye fixed to the billionaire's arm, suddenly worried that Tony might actually punch Steve in his sleep like some childish low-blow of anger. Tony tossed his head, freeing the cold pitch of his eyes to stare anywhere, be anywhere than where he was in that moment. Clint just calmly drank his terrible tasting coffee to kill time.

Another protest from Steve—but this time he turned further, burrowing into the couch as if he was trying to hide (and Clint supposed all his dumb rambling wasn't helping that), the one hand that was touching the floor twitching—and suddenly furiously _digging_ into the carpet—alarmed, Clint nearly reached down to stop it, less Steve _rip_ out Tony's new flooring—but just as the tremor had come on it was gone—his grip relaxed.

"Did you see that?" Clint asked, his voice almost breaking.

Tony glanced back—his eyes still distant as the Caribbean stars were from New York. "My guess is it's the start of a night terror. He's not in REM sleep. He hasn't been there for a while."

Clint glanced sideways at Tony, a smudge disbelieving. "I've gone so long with having such a hateful relationship with sleep that I did my homework on it. It's weird mathy stuff. You don't want to know."

"Nightmare?"

"Night _terror._ Small change with the wording. Big difference in what that beast is."

"So he's dreaming?"

"No." Tony contended quietly, his voice somber. "He'll never remember what scares him." Quickly, Tony turned away, conveniently distracted by the virtual wind tugging at the palm leaves. "I rarely do." He muttered under his breath.

Clint left Tony to pace about. He chewed on the idea of having a night terror—suddenly weary of if he ever had something to that effect, but he was drawing a blank.

He always knew exactly what scared him in his sleep. And that started with an L.

Another slight sound—almost a whimper—Hawkeye's gaze shifted down, instantly alert—but all that could be seen was the pause in Steve's breathing—a deep inhale—and shifting of his legs. The single sheet twisted down, pulling itself off of the blond.

Barton sighed, glancing at Steve's knuckles twisting tight into the sheet's corner, balled up like a fist, a foreign feeling of helplessness sitting in his stomach.

"You don't give yourself a break, do you buddy?" Clint added softly, his eyes light.

"What?" Tony tossed back from the slight distance of the speaker he had been idly poking at.

"Steve—I was talkin' to—well, just look at him. He looks exhausted even when he's sleeping. It's starting to bother me."

_"You're_ starting to bother me, Clint. I thought Steve mother hen'd everyone to death, not you."

"You care about him too. Can it, Stark."

Silence.

Slowly, Barton continued on through it.

"Thinking about it now….I think that's one of the few choices he's ever had in his life. Now I hardly think he can stand being _Steve Rogers_, let alone Captain America." Clint shook his head, unsure now. "Just from watching him sit around, or pretend to actively do something. It was pitiful. Painful. Just like right now is. I can't help but think what would become of him if he decided to not get up in the morning. If he would just sit in the darkness and not shower and not do the simplest things like brush his teeth and he could just get drunk and forget that he's entirely alone in his universe."

Unable to deal with it, Clint quickly flicked his wrist—in the darkness the white sheet skittered upwards ever so slightly like the hands of a ghost—and he pulled it over the solider further, covering his shoulders. The thin layer of the sheet fell slowly, crisping the darkness between the billionaire and the marksman, floating, drifting, a white flag of surrender. "But then I remember that he's genetically written, bottle'd serum or not, to _be_ Steve Rogers, and he'll go on thinking about the lives he can save and the good he can do and pretend he doesn't feel like he's turning to stone inside."

Enough with talking—soon he'd be as bad as Tony. Clint's jaw snapped closed. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Tony. Check mate style. Surprisingly, Tony didn't protest. He just stood there, locked as well, dark eyes heavy over the windows, the sheet, Steve. Silence was happening for a second time that morning. Clint almost didn't believe it.

"Sheesh. You sure do think about a lot when you're sitting up in your bird's nest, pissing into Coke bottles." Tony confessed slowly, the gears in his head turning. He pushed a strand of his hair back behind his ear, twisting the neck of his glass. "And what do you suggest we do?"

"So…we just have to cautious about this. Just stay cool. _Try_ to stay cool about it. I know whatever the hell you saw in that void eats you up inside like it eats me up inside for what I've done just here on planet Earth. But we don't know anything yet, Tony. And Steve's had a _shit ton_ taken from him. I'm not going to join you in taking this—whatever-it-is, if that's your plan."

Slowly, Tony sighed out, listless, the fight in him dying like an ember desperate for a flame it just couldn't find.

"I'm not trying to take anything away from Steve. But I'm going to keep an eye on what he's doing. Not too much surveillance, but I've got to know."

"I think you're just covering up your busybody ways."

"Really, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? I'm covering _my_ busybody ways?"

Clint's grip loosened. "You're hilarious at 6 in the morning, Tony."

"So—is it seriously just us?"

"Well, not exactly. Natasha should be awake soon. Thor as well. I figure we'll wake Steve and then we'll begin. Oh—and Bruce."

"Oh _hell_ no," Tony sputtered instantly. "Didn't you hear me? I saw Bruce less than two hours ago. That is not going to happen. Big guy needs a solid eight hours, or else my tower is going get another fancy remolding courteous of Flip-This-Shit-Hulk. No thank you."

"Fine. So well just wait for Natasha and Thor. It shouldn't be long now."

Tony's snicker caused Clint's vision to spin back towards where the genius was standing, dark curls drifting like little cracks that splintered the screens of his fake digital paradise.

"What?"

"He's drooling."

Clint fought between wanting to smile or roll his eyes. "Must be a serious kind of exhaustion."

"America's sweetheart. Drooling in his sleep." Another chuckle. "Kid kills me sometimes."

"You wakin' him up?"

A smile shimmered in the dull light, worthy of rivaling the Cheshire Cat. "Me? Not a chance."

The rise of a brow, Clint found himself frowning. "Well don't look at me."

Tony simply raised a hand to wave at someone behind Clint. "I'm not."

"Pleasant morning my friends. Although, will someone inform me of why Tony's fortress is now watery?" Thor ducked from the open kitchen, long golden hair somehow perfect regardless of sleep or hellfire.

Clint shook his head once more, although he couldn't help but smirk at Thor's confused tone. "Morning Thor. Yeah, about that. Don't try fishing in here. You could break a window big time."

* * *

I cried the other night.  
I can't even say why.  
Fluorescent flat caffeine lights,  
Its furious balancing.  
I'm the screen, the blinding light.  
I'm the screen, I work at night.  
I see today.

Don't wake me with so much.  
The Ocean machine is set to nine  
I'll squeeze into heaven and valentine  
My bed is pulling me.  
Gravity.

- R.E.M., "Daysleeper"

* * *

**AN**: Yeah, got me in some Hawkeye and Tony bonding! And some adorable Steve couch-cuddles. Too flipping cute to handle. Thank you SO much again for waiting for me! I'm sorry. Midterm, projects- my summer classes will be over soon! Expect action and Beth in the next chapter. ;) Seriously. Next chapter. Poor Steve...

_**NOTE:**_ To find out more about what Clint "Hawkeye" Barton means when he mentions Agent Colson's validation between donuts, type into YouTube: " Marvel One Shot: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Thor's Hammer". It's apparently an extra scene that I had NO idea even existed. I pee'd myself a little it was so funny. And bad ass.

Maybe let me know what ya'll think, please? c:

post- edits note:  
**AN:** Fun fact I found today as I went back through the Captain America movie. Steve's (movie verse) date of birth is actually 1918, which would make him about 27 respectively in regards to the rest of the documentation presented. Although it is (apparently?) canon that he is 27, I am sticking my version of Steve at 24. I greatly enjoy fics that toy with the idea of how young Steve is—not that 27 isn't still ungodly young for someone to be placed into war. But comparing the mind of a 24 year old to the obviously 34-43 age range of the rest of the Avengers is far too interesting to pass up. Keep an eye out.


	14. Misdirection

**AN**: TAH-DUH! I GOT A CHAPTER OUT IN TIME FOR STEVE'S BIRTHDAY! HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE! And as a special treat, **_a LOT_** of stuff happens! Like **Whump!** Who loves Whump? I love Whump! **Steve!Whump! All the Avengers together! Action! Drama! Beth AND Ronda!** Fun stuff! Bad stuff! And An **interesting ending!** What the hell is Kay talking about? Find out! Happy 4th to all who celebrate it, and if you don't, have a GREAT day today! You guys make my life awesome, seriously. I'll send out thank you notes soon to those who reviewed. It means SO much.** *fixed 7/10 for my derp typeos. **

* * *

Daylight licked me into shape

I must have been asleep for days.

And moving lips to breathe her name,

I opened up my eyes.

And found myself alone,

alone,

alone,

above a raging sea;

That stole the only girl I loved,

And drowned her deep inside of me.

* * *

"I don't think you should do this, Steve," Natasha's curt voice seems to have a trace of concern for him—and it made him feel all at once happy and equally alarmed—because Natasha didn't voice her concern lightly right in front of others.

He puts on the best high spirited grin he could muster—which feels a little lopsided on his face. "Don't worry about me—it's supposed to be a challenge. It'll be—" He fights for an adjective. "Great."

Natasha's lips didn't settle themselves, and ever so slightly Steve feels his stomach drop. 'Great' definitely wasn't the right word. He questions if there ever will be one to please Natasha.

She leans in closer to him, now the last pair to leave from Tony's living room to Tony's gym, which also functions as a lab. Well, really, most rooms in Tony's life functioned at double what it was supposed to do. Sometimes triple. "When's the last time you got a full night's sleep?"

"Tonight." He says instantly. But then he stops. "No, that isn't right." He tries again, blinking. "Today. Just this morning. I had three hours." His cloudy blue eyes glance at Natasha's sheepishly. "I'm really not trying to brag here, but that's nearly six hours for a normal person to my sleep ratio."

She looks at him fully, her dark green eyes searching, analyzing, her expression emotionless, minus a tight scowl of disapproval.

"I don't think it's enough." She says shortly. Then she shoulders her way ahead of him.

He picks up his pace to keep up with her graceful steps. "Nat, I had _Thor_ of all people wake me up." He chuckles slightly, "And I thought Director Fury was loud in his morning meetings, holy cow." He presses a hand to his eye, rubbing hard. "It's just training, basically. We're just versing each other. It's no different than any time before when we've trained."

The auburn haired spy barely turned to acknowledge him. "But it _is _different this time, Steve, because you were out all night—probably haven't slept in two days, from how much I haven't seen you—and it's great that you're feeling cheerful, but you can't keep putting off sleep."

This causes Steve's brows to crumple, buffeted. He lags behind her. "I'm not putting off sleep."

A swing of her hip tells Steve that she isn't buying that for a second.

"I'm not," he presses further. "Nat, I don't need to sleep that much. I've told you guys. Even Director Fury knows that. I need three to four hours, and it's like I've sleep eight. It's not normal, yeah, believe me, it's a real pain sometimes, but it's how my body works now."

Natasha's steps slow ever so lightly, her neck turns, her green eyes unreadable. Steve finds his mood drooping just trying to compete with her stare. It's going straight through him like the steel tip of a knife, accurate and deflectable.

"Natasha," Steve's voice lowers considerably, his blue eyes suddenly wearily. "70 years I've been asleep. You really think I wanna go _back_ to that every night?"

"I understand what I can Steve, and I get what you mean. But you've been doing a lot for just yourself lately, and honestly, it's really, really incredible to see you out and about—making friends, perhaps?" Something amusing faintly shimmers from behind her harsh green eyes. "But we all have to go back to the places we don't want to. We all do. At some point. And the longer we put it off, the worse it becomes. Just keep that in mind."

"Will do," Steve agrees, grateful that the subject can hopefully be dropped now.

Honestly, Steve was glad that Thor had woken him as he did. He wasn't too happy to look up half-sleep and spot Tony (of _all_ people, for crying out loud), Clint and Natasha all looking at him as he lay out of the couch, but he'd rather it not go on much longer. He had enough of that nonsense at the hospital. He didn't even remember falling asleep. He was just talking to Bruce and then—nothing. It's blank.

Walking into the gym, Steve gives up trying to reason the last time he slept. He decides to focus on what he actively knew when he was awake. That his date, his literal first date ever with a woman, and it had gone better than grand. He had her number saved to his phone. He was a regular modern fella now, if he wanted. He could call her with the touch of a button.

From the center of the gymnasium mat, Clint stands, palms pressed almost in prayer. But Steve knows Clint better than that—soon they rub together, almost masterfully. Suddenly he produces a single arrow from between his fingers. Steve's eyes focus tighter, disbelieving.

"There's a technique known in the art of magic called 'misdirection'." His brown eyes allow themselves to settle onto his entire team, one by one. "The challenge today is that idea implemented into combat. Two will approach, one will attack, and the other will create a misdirection that will avoid that blow _and_ bring the attacker down. It's very much like practicing one's dodges, but with an idea of being a few steps head of your enemy. And our greatest enemies' power is more or less ourselves pitted against each other, so I'm afraid, kiddies, that we're all we have to work with for now. In the field this could not only save your energy, but it'll actively keep us fighting towards an end, and not just destruction."

A slight pause in which Clint drummed the arrow across his knuckles. "And that isn't just my re-phrasing of what Fury's screamin' about us to work on. It's what he wants. However! I propose that whoever can accomplish this technique first will not have to attend any S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings for two weeks."

"In," Tony shouts instantly.

"Fine," Natasha agrees, pushing her hair back from her face.

"Having helped with the authority of these events, you already know my say so," Thor booms, grinning at Clint.

"I should've known this had to be the brainchild of some S.H.I.E.L.D. sham," Steve added, a smirk resting on his face. "All right. So who's first?"

Clint's smirk was there, friendly, sternly playful— "You."

And then he opened fired.

The arrow was suddenly hurled through the air like a blast from a gun, straight into Steve's face—but it took more than a fast pitch to make Steve waver. He snatched the shaft of the thing and quickly bawled his fist, listening to the sickening crunch that reminded Steve of tiny, dry animal bones.

He didn't even bat an eye at the attempt. Slowly he uncurled his fist, his blue eyes taking in the scene. "Really, Barton? You're gonna start by throwing sticks—"

Then Steve notices a towering shadow over take him from behind. He barely has time to turn—shoulders balked, he rolls forward just as the mega impact of what feels to be an earthquake that rocks the very _walls_ around them closes in from his last position. He cracks his neck upwards, eyes wild as he senses the very familiar stance of Thor's body—poised with one arm up in the air, and the other closed tight around his giant hammer—crackling and sparkling with so much electricity that_ every_ hair on Steve's body rose as soon as he looked at it.

Slowly, Thor lifted the thing back, swinging it over his shoulder like a baby with a rattle. The relaxed, gleeful grin widened with every step forward. Steve braces himself, chin stubbornly pointed out, crouched and ready to spring.

"Are you prepared, fearless Rogers?" Thor's voice seemed to darken to a guttural rumble of thunder, twisting the heat and the lights. Even Tony jumped as the ceiling flickered above them—shadows for an single instance—and the whole of Thor's shining silver polished armor flashed brighter and more strongly than any fireworks spectacle Steve had _ever_ seen, burning with a thousand different shades for fire—ones that Steve doubted had names in their world. Perched in his mighty hand, outlined in thousands of searing, burning ripples of lightening was Mjölnir.

"So you got the first move. But this ain't my first game of chess." Steve quickly checked for his own shield. "Do I get my weapon, or am I lonein' it?"

"Think fast or don't think!" Tony jeered at him.

Thor's hammer came down again, shaking the floor and Steve's teeth at the same time.

_Misdirection, huh?_ Steve thoughts flooded in rapidly. He rolled once more away from the second impact, then the third—and was it him, or did Thor really seem to be hitting harder with each blow?—Sweat dotted Steve's eyebrows. He jumps back, desperate for an idea to use in the bare walls of Tony's gym. The heat from Thor's weapon humidifies the air, pulling Steve's energy with it. He's out of breath before he knows it just from dodging. When the lights flicker again he grabs for an idea—but it's short and it's not well planned. But he tries it.

He leaps across the edge of the ring, making for the light switch. Darkness isn't exactly the most subtle misdirection but without his shield he feels like he's doesn't have much of a choice. He stretches for it, nearly across the way when a white wall of power overtakes him.

Steve feels his knees give out before he comprehends the pain. Shock wraps tight up his spine, curling around his brain like a fist, shaking his version into a seizure inside his skull. The room spins, flops around, faster and faster until it's just colours that are painting Steve's vision in thousands of burning white lights—his skin feels the pressuring of something boiling, raw and open across his flesh, dripping down his legs.

His last thought is that he must've hit the lights, because everything goes impossibly dark and terribly silent.

* * *

Peggy's dark red lips are against his, soft and yielding, and he can't help but nearly melt into having her arms around him. Her breathing is blissfully warm, and she trails kisses from under his chin to his neck. When she gets to his collar bone Steve notices the heat on his body fading. His fingers start to go numb, and no matter how hard he pulls her against his chest, he's starting to lose the feeling of her breathing. Quickly he cups her face in between his hands, holding her there, staring into her brown eyes. And then he's kissing her—hard—his mouth fighting for her to push back against him—his hands dropping to her shoulders, wanting to shake her like a drag doll—he nearly bites his own ravenous kisses into her neck just get to reaction—even if it's painful. Even if he has to cause her pain, at least he'd know she was alive.

Lord knows that's how he feels every day of his life without her.

Except for when he gets there, she's freezing against his face. Slowly, Steve raises his hand and places it along the temple of her ear. He looks back up into her eyes—but they're closed. He forces them back open in one last attempt. His throat feels pinhole tight.

They are nothing but empty sockets staring back at him.

He cannot hear himself screaming.

* * *

He wakes in what feels like seconds later—the white brightness around him filtered by giant black dots that flickered in and out of his vision. That, or he's blinking. Very slowly. A hand across his arm seems to be holding his spinning body to the floor. Every nerve feels like it's jumping across, crisscrossing in his skull, burning up. He blinks—his eyes sting furiously, and he prays it's not tears. But it's not tears. Sweat. He's sweating. Buckets. He can feel his clothing sticking to the floor, moist across his skin, seeping back into his eyes to burn once again. His grimace forces a blink. Again. Again. It becomes harder to do, like he's forgetting how...Awake. Has to stay awake. He's not tired. He's not afraid. He just wants everything to stop moving.

"—He's coming around. Tony, bring my blood pressur—" Calm, slightly lower in pitch. Banner, Steve decides. It has to be—

A steady rumble of a thicker voice is above him, Steve strains away from it. It's so loud. "—I do not understand—this is my fault and yet I did not expect—" Thor, of course it'd be him.

"You didn't expect for him to crumble like wet origami? Thor, you hit him in the side with your _hammer._ Your hammer. _Yours_. The one that Hulk can't even pick up. Sorry, Bruce, I know it's not the best time but it had to be said." Tony's voice is the strongest out of the men, rising in pitch with each passing word, choppy and inconsiderate as ever as he tries to lighten the sour mood—or smell, but that could just be Steve.

Steve opens his mouth, but his voice comes out shaking. Horribly. He can't even understand himself. "Wh—a—pp—ed—B—Br—"

He can't feel his tongue. He can't feel his fingertips. He notices Bruce giving his bicep a strong squeeze—but he can't _feel_ it. He can only see it.

"Frankenstein speaks! It's _alive, _doktor! It's _alive!_" Tony's voice jumps happily from above, and he rattles Bruce's shoulder like he's the man that was clever enough to fix the 1919 World's Series. And, had Tony been alive back then, he probably could have.

Suddenly Tony's face is up close to Steve and he vision spins around—warping Tony's jaunty features even thinner. "Old man, you gave us all one _hell_ of a surprise. Thor got you _right damn smack_ in the side—you went down hard, buddy. But don't worry—we're all kind've glad it was you. I figure it would've killed a normal person." A quick thoughtful pause. "Okay, well, _I'm_ glad it was you." Not even a bit shocked, Tony's as emotionally bullet proof as ever.

Giant meaty hands yank Tony away like a Vaudeville Hook to the throat. Thor—his breath overpowering in the fact that it smells too viscerally clean. Mint. So much mint. Steve vaguely thinks that some should really explain to the God of thunder not eat the toothpaste.

"Captain Rogers! Please accept my sincerest apologies. I felt for certain that you would take avoidance towards such a headlong attack. Are you critically wounded?"

"I—I—" Steve tries tapping his tongue against teeth. He thinks he can taste something rusty—something inside his jaw hurts. Hell. Something inside _all_ of his bones hurts. "D—un-nno."

Bruce's callused fingers are firmly locked around Steve's jaw—the soldier snaps his eyes shut, twisting away—but Bruce's voice is strangely calming. "Steve, you can't close your eyes. I need to look at your pupils." An order. Steve struggles to do as he's told. Eventually Bruce's face is fuzzy, but in view.

Bruce adjusts his grip, all his teeth showing in a strange forced smile. "You've been hit with unimaginable amounts of electricity. What you are experiencing now is the bodily trauma and shock. You probably feel numb—but don't worry. Breathe. You're not paralyzed. You've only been out for about three minutes—and already—" there's a slight pause, a shadow falls along Steve's face, Doctor Banner straining to look at something out of Steve's view. "Already your incredible immune system and healing abilities are repairing, in mere _seconds_, rapid amounts of tissue and muscular damage. The only thing I can think now is that it may take a few hours to set your equilibrium correctly. You may feel nauseous. Your "super senses", as we'll call them, might be over stimulated. I'm checking now for concussive and repository factors."

"W-why—d—thh-is—" He can't stop shaking, and yet he can't feel himself moving. It's perhaps the most frustrating and embarrassing situation Steve's found himself in yet.

Bruce's expression is elsewhere, obviously listening only halfway. A blast of a yellow-white beam is shot into Steve's eye, and he shudders. "Okay. That's good. That's good. Not too shocked, er—" The doctor smirks sideways, entirely strained and trained to his face from years of work, and probably much bloodier diagnoses. "You know what I mean. You have fast reflexes, Steve."

_Fast reflexes, Steve._ Beth's voice is the minutest of whispers, and for a moment Steve's eyes glance rapidly around, wide, confused. Is she here?

Clint takes notice, his arms crossed, knees bent ever so slightly as if he was prepared to make a rapid call. "Ya alright?"

Steve focuses on nodding very slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Ever so slightly he can feel the tip of his fingers knocking in steady a tremble over the tiles beneath him. Cool and smooth.

"Well, reflexes or not, that caught all of us off-guard. The idea was to avoid the blow, not take it like a fucking beast." Out of sight, Tony was standing at holographic projection of Steve's fluids, BP, brain waves—the list went on. "But I guess when you're the guy that carries nothing but a shield around it'd be a little crazy to think you'd go offensively for an attack plan."

Steve wants to roll his eyes at Tony. He wants to get up and get everyone's hands off of him. He wants to wipe his chart readings from that screen and he wants to pretend like this never happened. But he can't—he's 220 pounds dead weight of the word _can't_. A long strain of red hair briefly flutters by his temple, and he realizes that Natasha is behind him—his head in her lap. He forces his eyes to roll upwards—and he's greeted with the shrillest look of contempt he's ever seen from Black Widow. Bright green eyes polished coldly with a thick coat of discreetly diverted anger. He quickly pulls away from her.

He hopes she knows that his means of simple movements he can barely manage as his own means of apologizing. Because she was right. Women. Usually, always right.

"Shut up, Stark. No one wants to hear it." Her emerald cat eyes are on Tony, and, surprisingly, Stark stops. Steve's only regret is that he can't move his neck enough to see Tony's reaction to Natasha's scathing gaze.

Bruce's fingers poke something into Steve's wrist—but he can't seem to get it in deep enough. His eyes crinkle around the edges, making him appear so much older than he ever seemed. Steve wonders if he causing him grey hairs with every failed attempt. The dark brown of his hair is everywhere—and that's when Steve recalls that Bruce was asleep before all of this.

"Shit," Banner mutters, dabbing at the end of a very sharp looking needle. The hairs on Steve's neck rise gently, but he's already had needles 13 times that size shoved into just about every part of him before, during, and after his transformation. There was no reason to be scared now.

"Wh—at's up D-d-oc?" Steve tries to talk again, stuttering, but manages a preposition this time.

A rare smile sneaks onto Bruce's face, small and very real for a second as he stares at him. "I'm trying to get dammed IV hooked up—maybe I can try to find a strong sedative to help calm your pulse. I don't know if you can feel it yet, but your heart hasn't stop ringing loud for a while now—it's slightly worrying, but still." Bruce's smile fades just as quickly as it came, and in a lower voice he adds: "If you start trying Bugs Bunny impressions when you're distressed, you'll end up like Tony," Bruce thumbs over to the distracted billionaire and winks. "Don't go down that path yet, Steve. It's obnoxious. But that was clever of you."

Steve hopes his expression is nice, even when he can't feel all of his face, because he's never appreciated having a doctor on the team more than now.

* * *

The needle goes in on the 20th attempt, although none of Tony's digging and complaining can produce much from his emergency supply of drugs that'll do a single dent to Steve's fierce metabolism. Even Doctor Banner's calculations barely manage to keep up with Steve's body. He settles for a bottle of some kind of mixed medication that sergeant Fury had stored in case of an Steve related emergency—but Bruce assures Steve that it'll not have much more of an effect than the mildest of his anxiety symptoms. It doesn't matter to Steve all that much. It stops his obvious shaking, and he's able to speak, and that's better than waiting for it to go away naturally.

What won't go away is the problem of his team. What won't go away is how his entire team is looking at him. Staring. Constantly checking—with Bruce poking and prodding at his wound—because that's what it truly is now. It's settled exactly where Mjölnir had touched him. Angry and red, black towards the center, purple swirls in the outer layers—_extraordinarily _painful even if someone so much as thought about touching it. When Bruce accounts that Steve probably had a least three broken ribs, he was already _very_ aware of the damage.

Pain isn't new to Steve. He likes to foolishly believe that, due to his sicknesses as a kid, he has a higher pain tolerance than most—but getting smashed with Thor's hammer is nearly indescribable on a pain scale. He'd guess it's somewhere between the highest he can possibly count and dividing by zero. He forces himself to breathe in deeply, but it's like someone's shoving 50 or so cold knives through his side over and over and over. He cheats by breathing shallowly, cheats by telling himself that he's not as bad as he seems. Cheats because no matter how cold he's getting he's not going to ask for a blanket. Cheats because he's not going to close his eyes. Not with everyone watching. Not again. Not with hours slipping by with him lying there, motionless, and the room is slightly off center and Beth's out there somewhere.

It's nearly 3 o'clock when Steve's able to push himself into a sitting position. His chest and arms protest phenomenally, shrieking in weakness against the lightest weight, but he can't lie here anymore. He doesn't want to be still anymore.

He practices steadying his balance—which, in his opinion, isn't too noticeable—but moving with his right leg shifts his right side with it—and that almost drops him to his knees. A hand clamps down tight over the wound, forcing his shaking still.

"Steve, you're up." Doctor Banner's voice is calm as it ever was, but his eyes look suspicious. He's in the room without Steve ever guessing it.

Steve lets off of his side, glancing up, trying to smile. "I feel like I've been on that table for days." A hand through the sweat in his hair is so viciously damp that he has to do a double take at his hand. "Huh. I had no idea I could literally sweat bullets."

"Heh," Bruce chuckled. "It wasn't a pretty sight."

"Well, we can't all be Stark after a battle."

Another slight smirk from the doctor. "You shouldn't be standing. Really."

Steve flexes his hand, staring at it. Thinking. There's a way he can leave and it won't cause some big scandal. "Thanks, I got that—but uh, I honestly feel pretty disgusting lying in my own sweat for hours." Suddenly his eyes grow wide as the realization hits him. "Please tell me that was all I was laying in."

Bruce wipes his hands on a cloth for his glasses, worrying them back into place. "That's all you were lying in." He answers gently.

"Does this mean I still can take a shower?"

Bruce eyes him for a second, brows narrowing. "I suppose not. But really, Steve. I'm being completely serious. Don't let it be long. We don't know what Thor's hammer does to people." His face darkens. "Well, people that aren't me. I don't want you getting needlessly hurt. And I don't even know about Fury's medication, for that matter."

"I'm touched Doctor, really. But I hope you know there's an method to how I heal. Cuts take minutes. Deep gashes an hour. Torn muscles a day, broken bones, depending on how large the bone or the break, a few days." Steve fakes a smile because his side feels like it's going to rip open if he stands any longer. "I won't be long. Thanks for the pink slip."

* * *

He twists the silver oval knob to the shower's head, and waits for some kind of relief. Quickly, it comes, the water pressuring spraying out hot and fast and it buries him alive in warmth. It nearly takes him down, trying to soak the heat into his bones, absorb it into his hair. The wound on his side throbs with every drop, but he stands, leaning against the side, pretending that this isn't how his morning actually went and he's fine and soon he can leave and see Beth and not have to think about three broken ribs or Tony's paranoia or _anything._

He sighs, his forehead to the bitter cool tiles of the rustic red shower wall. He's always been a terrible liar to himself.

He misses feeling warm. To be able to escape the numbness of his skin and feel alive again. It wasn't good that he only felt if he was moving, if he had violent action, or if he was with Beth. And sleep. He hated sleep, almost as much as he wished he could enjoy it. But he hated how he rarely dreamed of anything—he mostly just woke up unable to breathe, twisted and confused and yelling himself hoarse over _nothing._ _Why?_ Why was it _always nothing?_

_I'm not nothing._

He chokes back a sob, so sudden that it scares him—delayed, his wound throbs, churning his nerves. He closes eyes and lets the boiling hot water run down his back, and doesn't picture Peggy's cold empty eyes.

He just shallowly breathes.

* * *

He wakes up briefly to the sound the hot water turning off. Alarmed, he limps to his room, locks the door. No one seems to know how long it's been. Not that he has a clue, anyhow, but still. He decides he has to try to leave. Now more than ever.

* * *

Banner was right on many things, but the most obvious is this:

the drug could barely last more than 30 minutes to contain his shaking.

It's hard to put on clothing without making sounds of vainly withheld pain. Quietly, he bites his lip hard as he pulls on the oldest pair of jeans that Tony had thrown to him months ago—luckily they're looser along the sides. That isn't so painful. And at least the rooms are more centered. Slightly. He stretches on a plain white t-shirt, snatches up his phone. He uses Jarvis to get a reading of where everyone is, finds an empty door, and is out into the snow. Soon he chooses a street, ignoring the stab in his side with every step.

His hand is shaking so hard that he's missing the right button. It's—it's _some _button on his blasted phone, he knows it is—Banner showed it to him last night, he's not a dummie, he couldn't forget so fast—but every button is leaving him more and more angry. When he stops to dial it by hand, he keeps misdialing keys. Nearly twice he mixes up Beth and Peggy's number together. Once he redialed Peggy.

Beth's number for speed dial on the phone is 11. He pounds the key twice by mistake before he realizes that it's ringing.

Once it goes to voicemail.

Twice he's told that whatever a voice mail box is, it's full.

A third time it—  
_  
"Steve, you rang!"_ her voice is such a relief to hear that he feels light headed. Or maybe he actually is. He doesn't care.

"Beth, hey, I'm sorry if I'm calling at a bad time," Steve tries to not let his voice sound too jittery. "I was wondering, are you busy?"

The ice cream pallor of Cold Stone Creamery seems so loud compared to how Steve's talking. With Ronda sitting across from her, Beth leans over and presses her hand across her best friend's mouth.

"Busy?" She eyes Ronda, who grins under her hand, and Beth can feel the spit on her teeth—scrunching up her nose, she pulls back to see Ronda's mocking expression. "No, I don't work until tomorrow, so today would be great. Would you like to meet somewhere?"

Steve's eyes dart all around him, nervous of being watched, one hand pressed to his side. He spots that he's not too terribly far from Central Park. The park sounds empty. It sounds wonderful. "How does Central Park sound?" Stepping over a large gash in the sidewalk shocks his spine—he nearly trips over himself. "A-Alright?"

"Sure," Ronda's instantly more alert when she notices the small lines of distress on Beth's face. "Yeah, the park sounds nice. It's so pretty around December. How about I see you in 30 minutes?"

_"Okay. I'll be sitting at one of the benches."_

"I'll keep an eye out, soldier Steve."

His voice seemed hoarse for a moment, a sound that could be a laugh, but sounds more like a gasp.

"Steve, are you okay?" Beth asks sincerely. Ronda, on the other end of the table, frowns.

"Me? I'm—I'm fine. I just, um, got out of a tough gym session. Boxing, you know. Sore." He tries to laugh, but even that sounds tinny to his own ears. He wraps up quickly. "I'll see you soon?"

"Yes," Beth finds herself nodding without him even being near her. "Definitely."

_"Okay. Oh, and Beth?"_

"Yes?"

_"Thank you. Really."_ A pause. _"Just thanks."_

"No problem," She adds, uneasily.

As soon as she hangs up, Ronda has slipped the bill for their ice cream. The two bowls sit in front of the girls—one Cookie Minster, the other Rocky Horror Picture Road.

"That didn't sound good, Beth." Ronda's eyes are digging into her, already stressing out. "I don't like this. I don't like that tone of voice you made with him. What did he say?" She picks up a spoon and thrusts it like a pointer stick at Beth. "And don't lie, please."

Beth finds herself staring at her still perfectly cold Cookie Minster, the green colour making her feel sick. "He sounded fine. At first." Her brows furrows. "But—I don't know. He…sounds upset. I think he's upset about something."

"Well I heard you ask what was wrong. What reason did he have?"

"He said he had a tough gym session. You know, how he works there and everything. He said he was sore."

"Sore," Ronda picks at word, digging into her peanut-chocolate-marshmallow-coffee-Horror-madness of an ice-cream, as if she could stab at the hidden meaning behind it. "Well, do you think he's lying?"

"I don't think he's lying, but something's wrong." Beth takes a small bite of her Minster. "Is it wrong if I'm a little nervous right now?"

Ronda's eyes leapt at her. "If you're nervous Beth, don't go. I mean…" Ronda's bottom lip sessions out ever so slightly. "I mean when you mentioned him going to war…his PTSD…I admit girl, it sounds…sketchy…I don't know if I want you around this guy anymore."

"Ronda, he just said he wanted to meet me in Central Park. It's a Tuesday, at 4 in the afternoon."

"I know it sounds innocent…but that's how the creepers get to you, girl. And…that sounds really bad, Beth. Really, really, creepy physcho murderer bad. A park in the middle of winter?"

"Ronda—" Beth sighs, because this is always a losing battle for safety. "Sometimes….sometimes you just need a stranger. Someone that doesn't know you, and can't judge you. I don't know. Don't you ever feel that way? And besides, I've known him for a while. We met months ago."

Ronda's green eyes bit into Beth's kindness. She held up a finger. "One time."

"And we've met again! We've gone out!"

"I know. Last night." Ronda deadpanned again. She pushed her finger out more. "One time."

"We've talked. It's going to be _okay_, Ronda."

"I don't know Beth…I have a really sick feeling right now," Ronda says quietly into her bowl.

"Me too," Beth adds, after a tiny pause. "Shit." She shakes her head, golden hair frizzing around. "I don't want to feel this way."

"Well….okay, how about this. I'll go with you."

Beth's baby blue eyes are mix of gratitude and consternation. "But—"

"Hold on. I'll go with you, but I promise he won't see me. I'll just be there just in case."

"Just in case what?" Beth asks, her eyes gathering the cold blowing of the snow outside their public safe ice cream coated world.

Ronda opens her black Regular Show/Adventure Time/Phantom of the Opera/Rent/Disney covered purse, and with a flare of her ruby nose ring, she shows Beth her baby.

A taser.

* * *

_You,_

_Soft and only._

_You,_

_Lost and lonely._

_You,_

_Just like heaven._

- The Cure, "Just Like Heaven".

* * *

**AN:** Well this chapter got..._dark_. I _wasn't_ kidding about my note about "Poor Steve" last chapter. Ah-ah...HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE! *Nervously pulls at her collar.* You know I whump you because I love you. c: I hope everyone has a safe and happy 4th, if you're a cross the pond or wherever you may be, have a great day today!** *Edited** for July 4th, morning. c: I do apologize for my misspellings, and I do hope it doesn't take to terribly much again from the story. Thanks to the guest that pointed out some flaws! You're all welcome to point them out, as well! *Looks out at all the raised hands.* Erm, maybe not all at once!

Maybe let me know what you think?

**Notes:** In order of appearance:

Yes, I have NO idea what to name this chapter. Help?

Yes, I change tenses a lot for this story, and I PROMISE you that I'm going to clean up my act and fix the chapters. Seriously. I'm so sorry. I'm exhausted from exams and chugging out this lovely story that I'm feeling a little bit of what Steve's feeling right now. And it's mostly sweat. Sticky. Everywhere, oh god.

Yes, Tony is making a _Young Frankenstein_ joke. God bless you, Mel Brooks, for being crazy and making a hilariously wonderful satire.

Yes, it does bother me that in the comics, The Hulk is the only OTHER being able to pick up Thor's Hammer. This bothers me deeply that this isn't carried into the movie, but I do admit that I smiled when poor Hulky couldn't lift it an inch. Kinda shows how badass Thor is.

Yes, [as far as I'm aware, anyways] I did indeed make up Ronda's ice cream flavor of Rocky Horror Picture Road. I thought it was clever as hell, and I wish it existed, because I would eat it all the time for the sheer pleasure of telling people that I'm eating Rocky Horror Picture Road. Am I the only one that thinks that's too much fun to say?

Yes, Ronda's purse is nod to all the shows I love. *Insert the "I REGRET NOTHING" gif, here*.

Yes Steve's own stress/wound/ and the Fury Meds are making him a little crazy. I wonder how THAT'S going to work out. It's why more run-on-sentences happen. I hope that comes across okay and isn't just my usual crap grammar kills. You guys are the best for sticking with me. Seriously.

Yes, we have two, count 'em, TWO rational female characters that consider the safety of herself and isn't completely self scarifying in that sense that NO ONE IS ACTUALLY THAT SELF SACRIFICING in a realistic scale.

I mean, come on friends, we ALL love our super heroes but you gotta admit that from a completely outside perspective, they can be speculatively scary.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGAIN, STEVEVVEE.

StEVVEEE, I'm so mean to youuuuu~~


	15. Wounded

**AN:** Thank you for all who are enjoying! It just makes my life. Yess. Yess. Now go see what trouble Steve and Beth get into now. Oh buddy. There it is.

* * *

I needed you more,

When we wanted us less.

I could not kiss, just regress.

It might just be

Clear, simple and plain.

Well, that's just fine.

That's just one of my names.

* * *

He didn't have his watch.

He took a breath that practically choked the cold down his throat. Shifted in his seat, shoulders steeled at attention. The gnarled naked limbs laid low above him, frosted with clumps of crunchy hard snow. When he looked up into the branches, speckled by the setting sun, that bounded and leapt the alleys of New York City to touch the sparking crystals streaked across trees, they shimmered with a pleasant, twinkling rainbow of softly dripping colours. Light green, deep blue, tiny bits of pink, dabs of oranges sparkles all neatly melted together. The crystals bristled in the fading light, moving in with an irk like the hairs on a tom cat's back—the solider found he couldn't stand to look at them for long. The colours took on shape for some reason—getting longer, thinner, brighter. It made him dizzy. Occasionally, the dripping speck of ice cold water tapped at the back of his neck like an impatient stranger that wanted his seat. He jumped every time the exposed nape of his neck touched the striking chill. He didn't know why he kept forgetting about it. He rubbed at the pain tingling there. He really didn't care for it. He nudged at his phone again, hands wedged between his thighs, focusing on not allowing himself to shiver. He wasn't cold. He just really wanted to know what time it was. He just—Steve blinked, dumbfounded that he could just look down and—

He didn't have his watch.

Steve snorted in frustration, muscles tightening. Somewhere sharply to his right a quick jab responded—starting from his side and riding down his arm.

He glanced at his wrist again, rubbing there furiously, feeling pins and needles lace themselves up his veins, stabbing back down again. He was such an idiot for leaving without it. He just couldn't believe his luck of it all. He peeked at his other wrist just to make sure he wasn't entirely mistaken, but it was bare as well. He sucked in a deep breath, allowing the chill in his teeth to rattle down his windpipe, soaking his lungs in cold.

It was suddenly one of those days were minutes didn't seem like minutes. Steve palmed the sticky cellophane of his mobile, fingers tightening their grip so vigorously that, unnoted to him, the number 8 on his keypad was going to permanently stay embedded in its place. Heavy blue eyes shifted with every whisper of the wind, ever slight coo of a white pigeon hooved up in the sloppy branches of an American Elm. He rung the phone through his hands, wondering why it kept vibrating in his calm grasp. His fingers weren't shaking. They were fine. He tested them constantly. Another drip of water tapped at his spine, grabbing at the goose bumps in his skin, burning it raw like a long, thin icy talon slowly dragged its way down his back, and his knee jerked up in front of him. It was then he came to realise it was his knees that wouldn't stop shaking.

He hated waiting. He really, really did. He reasoned with himself that he just got off the phone with Beth. He went to—_No, nothing is on your wrist Rogers, get a _grip—and that was seconds ago.

He blanked, still staring at his upraised knee, and stupidly stomped it back down through snow under his boots. He twisted his neck carefully, eyes tearing though the slowly falling snowflakes to see if anyone saw him, but he found himself alone. Completely alone. Central Park gleamed on beautifully for blocks. Trees ached for comfort, thrown against each other, peeling raw in desperation for spring. He looked up. It was just Steve, the trees, and the sky. And boy, did the open sky go on forever when it wasn't nuzzled between the hard elbows of gargoyles and fire escapes that decomposed faster with every increasing floor.

Trees moved faintly about him, shifting gentle layers of snow to catch themselves on the light breeze that was tearing itself into Steve's side. He pressed down harder, a hand cupping along the blackened bruise that roared deep inside, rushing for his inner ear—sometimes his heart was so loud in his head he thought about screaming just to block it out. No one was around. There was no one around. He could scream. He could scream and scream and _scream_ and maybe no one would ever hear him.

He leaned back against the wooden panels of the bench that tickled his back with frost bitten splinters, neck craned upwards. White covered all sides of him. Everywhere he looked it was blue and white. And the sky was so huge, so overbearingly wide, that he couldn't see it all at once—no matter how hard he looked or where or how quickly, the sky just wouldn't stop. He blinked hard, shuddering as another throb coasted through his body, washing his arms numb of feeling. He glanced at the trees, their colours, their movements—but it was moving too fast. He returned to the sky and its stillness. _How could such a space exist here, still?_ Steve thought slowly to himself. _There's too much of it, and New York is too greedy for space. It won't last. It'll never last. Nothing ever lasts._

He pointed a numb finger to the sky. When he was a kid, he sometimes wondered if the sky was the mass of God, or maybe just his eye. Maybe God had blue eyes. Eyes so wide and so vast that the Earth was a marble that he sometimes picked up and liked to play Ringer with it. Exactly with whom, Steve didn't know. Steve didn't know if God versed other beings in games with marbles—like aliens or Adolf Hitler, simmering somewhere deep down in Hell. Steve didn't know if God just liked to make bags of planets and marbles and circles of different dimensions, and maybe he shook it just for fun. And maybe those marbles fell to earth faster than shooting stars. Maybe those blues marbles hit young blue eyed boys like bullets that tore through the metal of their helmets and through the back of their skull that finished all their memories of childhood. Blue marbles that bounced off Steve's chest, but landed everywhere else. Because Steve couldn't win every single game. He couldn't defuse every single marble and carry men through explosions of glass and shards of blood and he couldn't save everyone. Someone _had_ to lose.

But God never lost. He just played the game. He just changed the rules.

Rules that meant bullets could hurt Steve in ways that would never make him die, but drop onto his knees in the middle of prayer and sob into his arms until he felt as if he'd finally ripped the lining that held him together since the first time he held his mother's slowly cooling hand between his palms, pretending not to see the tears that dribbled down her soft cheeks, too young to wither away in dried blood across a white mattress, too young to leave him alone. Bullets that tore his father down, torn his friends away. Guns that helped protect bombs that gutted Steve's world, morphing it into breathless silence and death and Hell. Bombs that had labels and were packed onto carrier planes. Bombs and bullets and blue marbles that rolled around in Steve's mind until he wondered if he was just another weapon, too.

And then he saw God's eye for the last time in 1943—changing the sky into the sea.

And everything was white and blue—and he couldn't breathe—snow packing in around him, filling his mouth, his nose, his eyes. And it spun—and the world hurt, and the sky hurt, and the pressure shoved steamy water that tasted like sulfur and oil across his face, salty blood and tears into his eyes—The sky above Steve was falling down over him—and he could see it coming to finally end it.

It was ending all because blue eyed boys weren't allowed to kiss brown eyed girls. That was against the rules. And God's eye was watching. He saw it all.

A circle of icy blue hurtled down towards Steve's face, wet and cold and empty—and he screamed, long and loud, pouring from his mouth in hot, smothered words of broken prayers**.** He curled up, bracing his arms above his face—his side opened like a fire of unreasonable pain that left him breathless—but he yelled—scattering the snow doves and pigeons away from their homes. His throat blasted his cries until it was too raw, too cold to continue on. Steve didn't want to move his arms. He didn't want to look up. For all he knew, his world had ended once again and he'd wake up and he'd be alone once more. And this time no one would wake him up. And he'd just drift forever, unable to move, unable to breathe. Shivers rushed up his spine, rocking his body. He was so cold. He was so alone.

Then a chime echoed from his lap. The blonde opened his eyes as a warm red light brightened the barrier of his arms. A shaking hand poked at the screen, too nervous to even breathe on it. His phone read out two words:

_I'm here._ _5:36 pm._

_Beth._

Steve's hands scratched hard at the dried frost on his cheeks, his upper eyebrow, unsure of how it even managed to dry so uncomfortably.

_BethBethBethBethbethbethbeth_, Steve chanted, fingers shaking so hard against the cold skin of his neck that his nails were starting to leave red marks that glowed like little beacons in the sugary, frost coated air.

He shivered, an arm leaning down to press tightly at the ache in his side. Between the thin fibers of his t-shirt, he swore he could feel an unnatural heat lifting up. It was almost like the wound was cauterizing itself and the triangular whips of wind curled up just enough to let Steve see his body at work. He stared at his phone—and suddenly, he wondered how long it'd been since he'd talked to her. Since that text had arrived. It was all so fast. All too terribly slow. He slowly looked at his bare arm, the hair resting there standing on end.

He didn't have his watch.

Then Steve's phone lit up like a firework, making him jump as rattled against the beaten wood like a skeleton's knuckled rapping on a door. He picked it up, carefully holding it to his mouth.

"Beth?" He didn't wheeze her name. He didn't.

_"Hi! Sorry, texting is just a force of habit—I don't even know if you're able to get text messages. If I charged _you_, I'm sorry! I just wanted to make sure I found—you! _Oh,_ God now I see you!—"_ _click. _

Steve's heart dropped hard and fast. The dial tone was in his head—buzzing, louder and louder—the last time he'd heard a dial tone, Peggy didn't answer. She didn't answer because she was gone. She was gone—somewhere far across the sea where another blue eyed boy was kissing her because life wasn't fair—70 years of him wanting to survive and protect against bullies, and life _still_ wasn't _fair_—

"Steve!" Beth's voice echoed, botching off the bark of the trees. His blue eyes flickered wildly—_don't look up—no, no, no.  
_  
He blinked and she was there, yards, feet, inches. She had jogged up to the bench, one hand pressed against wool of her skirt, the faintest curve of a kneecap poking out. "Man, I'm so out of shape—it's getting ba-_ah'd_." She huffed, sucking in a breath. She straightened slowly, tossing her yellow hair behind her in a hurry when she saw Steve just gawking at her.

"Hey," she offered again, her smile bright on her face. Steve blinked. Now she was frowning.

"Steve?" She tried again, her voice tight. "Hey." _Warmth_—Steve jerked back, pulling his hand away from her's as if she'd stun him. "Oh, ah—I'm sorry, I just. You were still holding your phone." For some reason she was turning red. "I could hear the dial tone."

Instantly Steve's fingers uncinched themselves from the base of his cellphone. He heard it hit his leg, but he didn't feel it. He swallowed drily, his throat _aching_ with the effort.

"Beth," He managed to say, his voice slightly scratchy. He couldn't remember why. "It's nice to see you again."

That rewarded him with a slight worried smile that punctured her serious expression. "Yeah, I wondered if I'd be seeing more of _you."_ Her red lips tightened over her final word, her blue eyes looking slightly doe-eyed. She took her time sitting down, her eyes looking over Steve's head, as if she was nervous about something. He certainly wasn't going to look up. Slowly, Beth leaned across, an arm maneuvering over Steve's lap to touch at the empty space to his right.

Her light brows furrowed. "You don't have a jacket?"

Steve jerked his neck to look at her hand, poised over his lap, touching the bare bench.

"It—it was really hot." He stuttered, his teeth trying not to chatter.

Beth raised an eyebrow. "It was hot?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded, which made the pins and needles return to his shoulders. Was it at his shoulders before? Odd. Slowly, his story was returning to him. "When I was working out. It was really hot. So I just took off like this."

Suddenly Beth's arm was back, resting in her own lap. "Right, right, your work out." She titled her head slightly, her lips pursed back into a tiny frown. " You sounded…sound…really stressed out. What…happened?"

A large hand tightened over Steve's wound, holding his shirt down. "I was working out with a friend, and I got careless."

Beth nodded slowly; as if she had any idea to what he was talking about, getting hit with the mythical being's hammer. Steve felt like he was floating a bit, but he could appreciate her attempt. It was more courtesy than Bucky would've paid him, back when they'd sit on cold park benches and Steve would ramble about baseball cards or four point perspective drawing. Bucky wouldn't take any of Steve's corny hobbies.

"Heavy hitter?"

Steve tried to stiffen out, feeling too saggy, like he couldn't hold himself steady. Like responding to the marksmanship of a master, Steve's side spasmed at Beth's words. Despite himself, he flinched.

"You have _no_ idea,"

Beth's eyes grew surprisingly soft, and it made Steve want to shrink away. Because he was wrong before. So very wrong. It wasn't pity there. It was like her eyes had a way of just being there, not trying to pry—but it still felt as if she knew exactly where he hurt.

And God, he hurt _everywhere._

"And…your face?"

Steve paused, forcing his eyes open through the pain. He nearly stuffed his fingers into the open maw of a wound in his side, just in a brutal attempt at stopping the warmth from leaking out of him. "My—my face?"

Beth's fingers raised themselves to her chin, gesturing with the edges of her nails—clear as ever. She flicked slightly at the sides of her face, above her eye, and then along her neck. "You have these red scratches on your skin."

Numb fingers felt along Steve's cheekbones, over the wrong eye, but he couldn't feel a damn worth of difference. "I don't understand."

"No, you're not touching the right places." Animated her hands were up—but she kept them at a polite distance. She glanced at her hands and into Steve's eyes. "Uhm, may I?"

Steve just stared at her, his throat raw, his side splitting. A few seconds marched by, and Beth lowered her hands.

"I'm sorry—that was dumb of me. To just." She glanced away. Loudly she cleared her throat. "You just look like you got beat up behind an alley or something—like some stubborn little boy." She laughed quietly, her golden hair twirling down her coat. "I just want to make sure you're okay. I'm honestly surprised you don't have a black eye to top off your look."

Steve hoped he was smiling. His teeth were pressing together so hard he worried they'd shatter and he'd start swallowing them. "Yeah, hah, that's the last thing I need. A shiner."

"Are you requesting me for back up?" She asked wearily. "I'd been told I have a good right hook." A pause. "Okay, well, I punched a guy once in my junior year of high school."

Steve continued to stare at her, for longer and longer periods. She shrugged slightly.

"And maybe I hurt my hand more than I did him. But _damn, _did it feel _good_ when I did it."

Steve's eyes drooped slightly as she blurred out in his vision. He caught on to what she was getting at. "Oh, no! No, that's…that's okay. I appreciate it. I have no doubt you could hold your own. I just.." he floundered now, feeling slightly put on the spot. "I just…"

A cold drop spilled down his back and he shivered violently.

Beth's eyes were worried once more. "Steve—"

His wild blue eyes flashed to hers, seeming to _pulse_ with pain. Instantly Beth wanted to back up, press herself to the edge of the bench. _Whoah._ Her heart skipped nervously. Maybe Ronda wasn't just being paranoid.

"Yes?" He breathed out the word. Beth noticed that his other arm hadn't moved from its spot on his side, wrinkling his t-shirt with a fist full of cloth.

"You're just wearing a shirt." Beth continued, her voice startlingly calm. "Aren't you cold?"

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say no so he could get up and smile and ask her to walk around with him and they could lie down in the snow and freeze together and he wouldn't die alone ever again.

But maybe that'd be taking things a bit fast. He hadn't even asked her to go steady yet.

Bu instead, he nodded. Slowly at first, and then he started to shiver right down to his bones—briefly he wondered if he was going to have a seizer—maybe he'd had one already, Steve didn't know.

He blinked. The first blink Beth's wool coat was off of her shoulders—she was wrapped tightly in two other undershirts made of something that looked unbelievably soft. His hands shook more at the idea of holding her. On the second blink, Beth, inches from him, was raising her arms to hook her coat around his back. It looked awkward across the broad definition of Steve's shoulders, but he did feel slightly warmer. If anything, that cold piece of hurt that kept dropping on his spine stopped its tapping. Steve breathed in her being so close. The cold seemed to amplify her scent—it smelted of something sweet—chocolate-y almost. He wanted more. He wanted her warmth. He wanted her. He closed his eyes, leaning in—

And, surprisingly, he touched something _warm._ Her hands. Carefully Beth had spread both her hands along Steve's jaw, a thumb stroking across the scratches there—now they started to sting, brought back to life at the temperature change. Steve was too dazed to think about pulling back. He seemed to just keep leaning forward, unable to balance. He threw out both his hands—one to the side to keep from crushing her. The other to wrap his large fingers around her wrist for support.

Letting go of his side wasn't good. A rush of cold air stabbed at this side like a knife going in a few random times, deeper with every jab. He hissed out in pain, his temples throbbing, the world spinning.

Beth braced herself against the bench, her blue eyes wide in panic. "Oh my God, _Steve!"_

Instantly he jumped, forcibly awake. He stared at her hard, pretending that nothing weird happened at all.

Slowly, Beth breathed out, and her warm breath mingled along Steve's mouth—his lips twitched faintly in response.

"Steve." Beth's voice was soft and clear, low in his ears. "I don't want you to freak out. But I'm pretty sure you're bleeding."

Steve's brows furrowed, and he weakly fought to cover up his wound. But he could feel something hot and wet coming out from his shirt, and he knew that was a lost cause. Slowly, he paled, his face still in her hands, and he prayed. This was the last thing he wanted. He just wanted to see her. He just wanted to be sit close to her, and maybe attempt to hold her a little. She was warm. She was so warm.

_"Please."_ He whispered out, his voice frayed. _"Please_ don't…don't freak out."

Beth's eyes fought between prying themselves from the dark, black-looking blood soaking through Steve's shirt, and his own eyes, wide and scared and wholly confused.

"Nice try soldier," Beth's voice was three octaves too high. "but I'm pretty sure I asked you that first." But she just continued to gap at Steve, and she tried to speak again, but she only managed to mouth the word 'blood'. She mouthed it again. Again.

One more time. Her shock wasn't going away in time soon.

"I'm okay with blood. I'm okay with this." Her voice shook slightly, sounding not okay at all to Steve, but then one of her hands slid downwards, a flush of warmth across his body—and she quickly pressed against his wound—"Ah, _wet, hot, wet, okay_—" she gasped, her own nerves burning up, she felt sick—"okay, you can _do_ this," Beth's lips were moving too quick. Steve's head swam just to keep up with her. He was pretty sure she was the only person keeping him upright right now.

Slowly, Beth's fingers tightened against Steve's cheek, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were light blue china saucers, huge, detailed with cracks, and unmistakably fragile. "Steve. _Why_ are you bleeding? Did your _friend_ do this to you?!"

"It was my own 'tupid mistake," He slightly slurred out against her, trying to defend Thor. He didn't mean to hurt him. Guy wouldn't hurt anyone. He breathed against her lightly. His lips were turning purple.

"Mistake." Her voice was even higher. It hurt his ears. "No, your _mistake_ was to leave the gym and walk around in the snow and—Steve, why did you call _me?"_ Beth shook her head violently, "Never mind—Steve, your phone. Who can_ I_ call? Other than 9-1-1."

He tried to shake his own head 'no', but remembered that Beth was holding on, and he only ended up nuzzling her fingers. "It'll heal up soon enough," He promised into the warmth of her hand, sighing contently.

Beth looked like she was ready to scream, her lips were shaking so badly. He tried to smile at her to let her know he was telling the truth, but it was getting harder and harder to talk.

"Steve, honey, I trust you. But you gotta trust me." Beth pressed again, harder, her voice sobering up as she forced every word individually. "Who. Can. I. Call?"

She quickly pulled away from Steve's face, reaching for his phone—but Steve fell with it, colliding against her body. He leaned into her shoulder—her body warmth was like a shock of hot water—boiling, engulfing, _fantastic._

"Steve, no, you just _can't,_" Beth strained, nearly cried, pushing hard against his chest—using all of her force to brace him back up—in all things considered, she got pretty far, managing to grasp the side of his cheek again, a thumb rubbing hard at the skin, trying to keep him awake.

And something snapped in Steve's brain—those hands against his chest—the sky whirled under his fluttering eyelids—shadows twisted and he could only think of how badly he wanted Peggy to fight him back in his dream..to prove that she was alive…and now someone was pushing against him…now he was going to sleep…but…but….

His eyes shot wide.

_Peggy._

The silver swirl of the wind picked up, causing the hairs on the back of Steve's neck to tingle. He steeled his shoulders, leaning in, skipping the tight space between them, and their lips met in a cold snap.

Steve willed himself to stay, although the closeness of her face, the wisp of her shimmering golden hair licking at the side his face created a deep pit in his stomach.

And he knew it wasn't her.

Cold. Her lips, soft and firm, were cold. Steve grimaced against her, his own lips slack in surprise, cold flooding into his mouth—cold, cold, cold_._ He was kissing _ice._ Freezing down, swallowing powdered snow that over powered all of his will to breathe. He couldn't breathe—

Beth's arm tighten about him, and she pulled him close against her—the small frame of her body trying to hold them together—Beth moved with him, breathing hotly against his cheeks, his lips—pressing her mouth against his as if she was certain it was the only thing keeping him conscious. Steve went with it—a numb hand reached up, slipping through her hair, feeling the radiating warmth of her neck—he increased his need, his want for warmth—he was so cold. He was _dying _in the cold—He felt a sound close to his ear, almost like a whimper, of lust, of pain, Steve couldn't tell, but he just _needed _her so badly to keep him warm—_someone, please—_his heart beat out. His fingers closed tightly over the back of her neck and—he forced his eyes open, and found Beth's wide, and staring far away from him—she was trying to escape—trying to wiggle away but he couldn't unlock his fingers fast enough—he was freezing and hurting and bleeding and he wanted her lips against him again so it would all go away—

_"Ronda—!"_ A blazing shriek lit up his ear.

A white wall of power struck him from behind—and he slid down into Beth's lap, all his strength gone—the world shaking, Beth's face phasing out—her face powder white. Her eyes ice blue marbles.

* * *

Thor always had a distorting feeling for when electronic pulses shifted through the air, no matter how small. He was getting better at when the human's mobile communicators would go off, as well. Just as he turned to announce its arrival, Natasha had opened her phone in a flash.

"Hello?" Her voice was practically mute in greeting.

A pause. Natasha's face flushed, her red hair seeming to rage against the taught pale of her cheek. Her lips pursed in, brows spiced. She spun on her heel, pacing effortlessly out of the room—shoulders defensive.

Thor's stormy eyes linked to the rest of his teammates, but each one read the same message: Something was amiss. Time seemed to slow, even as everyone made an effort to hide the drop in the mood. Tony twisted the cord of the fan, silver and post modernly bulbous. Clint continued to file his nails until his edges of his cuticles started to shave off. Thor stood solemnly, a Nordic statue in Tony's modernized gleaming kitchen. He knew this shift in tide before—humans were usually delusional and secretive when the matters of problems came about. Anticipation was never so indiscreet in Asgard. It was roared, shouted, _thralled_ throughout the kingdom—for better or for worse. It was apparent that soon he would have to take it upon himself to find the err in the spy.

Quick precise heel clicks. Natasha was off the phone, but her gaze remained gilded in shock.

"Who was that?" Clint tossed the question lightly, but he tensed for the volley spike of a rebuttal.

"A woman." Her leeward eyes sealed to the screen, her fingers tight around the silicone, squeezing it inward with a powerful grip. "She was calling from Steve's phone."

"Steve?" Clint repeated, his smile sprinting from his face, replaced with the Hawkeye illusion of complete control. The nail file was forgotten. "Steve's asleep. In Bruce's lab." He eyed Tony ferociously. "How long as it been? Hours? He's been down for the count for _hours._"

Tony's spine was a rod taped to his back. "Do I look like his damn _keeper?"_ Tony rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

"Where is Capsicle, in my Tower, to this exact second?" Tony asked slowly.

"He left about 26 minutes, 27 seconds ago, precisely, sir."

Clint had never seen Tony's face look quite so confused.

Slowly, Tony's dark eyes flickered to Natasha's, cold and calculating, already eight steps ahead. He cocked his head to the side, his voice unsure as he asked:

"And where is he now?"

Natasha's eyes flashed with a vain, mournful pain. "He went and got himself tasered."

* * *

Everything's gone white,

And everything's gray

Now you're here now, you're away.

I don't want this.

Remember that.

I'll never forget where you're at.

"Glycerine", Bush

* * *

**AN:** Thanks again to everyone. I'm currently in the tidal of finals, so I apologize for my slow responses to thank you notes, but THEY ARE COMING, but look 'it me, pumping out a chapter! *High fives everyone!* You all make my life. c: Let me know what you think? Comments? Questions? Corrections?

I always, always imagine Beth's hilariously frazzled reactions to these kind of things. She's just like: "Oh awesome! I'll go meet mah sexy new possibly boyfriend Steve, get some ice cream, and then stick my hand in a bloody wound caused by the god of thunder. Wait. Wat. _WHAT."_ OH BETH, YOU'RE TOO MUCH. It's not emotionally scaring at aaalllll. Everybody say: "It's a small world after allll- it's a traumatically stressful emphatic and claustrophobicly anxiety ridden tactile hallucination world afftter allllllll!"

**Notes:** Yup, Ronda's tazer was a "smoking gun", as I've heard it said in stage plays. Once the audience sees it, it's gotta be used. And boy. Things are getting interesting now...also, I struggled so HARD with the past tense of tazerd. It is "Tazered"? "Tasered?" "Don't taze me, bro!"? Ugh, words how do you EVEN.

**Updated: 7/10 for typeos and the like:** Thank you all SO much again for the lovely reviews! Seriously. So much. Please expect an update soon. Like night/tomorrow.

I just saw "Despicable Me 2" today. There were tazer jokes. A lot of them.

I laughed, and laughed and _laughed._

God, I'm a terrible person.


	16. Cessation

**AN:** So I wanted to jump right into all dat Beth/Steve bonding and fluff. But then I realised that I had that "realism" and "character development" style going on. So. Yeah. About that. FLUFF SOON. BUT HERE. TAKE SOME DRAMAS. This chapter was getting too long to post as one, so I had to cut it. Stay tuned for part 2. (Thank you all SO much again. All those reviews and follows and favourites. I wake up smiling all the time. And that's probably terrible to say considering what I've done to the main characters of this fic. Uh.)

* * *

**Cessation** - ces- sa - tion - [se-sey-shuhn]

noun -

_A temporary or complete stopping._

* * *

"Cause Jersey just got colder and

I'll have you know I'm scared to death.

That everything that you had said to me was just

A lie until you left.

* * *

"Natasha, how bad is it for damage control? Do I need to send in the Furies?" Tony baited, hands motioning the air to suddenly touch giant opaque squares that lit up a giant map of New York's traffic, live camera action rattling with tail pipe smoke through his clean kitchen.

"I could only hear two women." Natasha was already slipping on her knee-highs, a thick plain white knee-high skirt about her waist, electric pulse Widow Maker bracelets, insolated for the cold, tight around her wrists.. "The one with Steve's phone was named Beth. She was very hard to understand—but my GPS tracker says they're at Central Park. We'll be there in less 20 minutes if we leave now. I don't know anything else. There's no need for S.H.I.E.L.D. yet. It'll only cause a bigger scene."

"You have a GPS on Steve?" Tony's black eyes shattered through the film flying around his face.

"His phone. Fury's implement. I didn't care to ask questions for why."

"Because apparently Steve's got a quite a secret rebel streak. I'm nearly impressed. But Fury usually doesn't make that forward thinking of calls for any good reason."

Her hair tossed, brimming red, and she eyed the blonde God of Thunder's physique."Thor, you're coming with me. Now."

Thor's eyes settled on her, naturally pleased, ready to get out into the human world once more. "Shall I?"

"You hit him; I need someone to carry him, which could be used as a formal apology. It all works out. Stark, Stay here." Her eyes whipped to Clint's. "Barton, make sure Stark does as he's told."

"Excuse me?" Tony sputtered. "I'm not going to stay here while Steve's out there, pretty bobble headed hairs singeing with fire? Yeah. Bite me."

"We're leaving." Natasha shrugged into the sleek outline of her black leather coat, soft white fur curling up tastefully around her smooth neck line.

"Wait!" Tony barked, his black eyes vexed. "Wait! No!" His arms seemed to flop in the air, useless to him. "Fuck no!" He jabbed a finger at Thor. "_Hammer Time_ gets to go, and I don't?"

Clint's cool eyes clicked to Tony's. "You're such a whiner, Tony. They're going to get Steve away from civilian eyes—it's not a field trip to the Radio City Music Hall."

"Please. I could snap my fingers and _own_ that overblown Radio station." Tony quipped intrepidly. "You're telling me Thor gets to go into the public eye? Ppbft, start the Benny Hill music. I'd say we could slap a wing over him, but with those golden locks I'm pretty sure every hair dresser would swoon east of Hollywood."

"I know you never let anyone forget who you are Tony, but you do realise that if you're even 500 yards close to where Steve is, hospital, desert, or Antarctica, you'll cause a massive public stirring? _Thor_ is subtle compared to you. And he can also lift, like, 3 tons and carry it for blocks. What can you lift, Tony?"

"4000—"

"Without the suit."

"197, at best." Pepper piped in, suddenly feeling as if she'd walked into a heated debate for gun control. Mass weaponized control. Steve control. Tony slowly turned to look at his witty, beautiful, and all too truthful girlfriend, his eyes spiteful. "And on a good day." She added with a clean smile.

Natasha's smirk turned gruesome, her teeth set. "Do you care at all about how Steve still has a chance to not be known to the public eye?"

Tony stared at her incredulously, like she just said the stupidest fucking thing in the entire world.

"_He _obviously didn't! Is everyone blind to that idea? _Steve_ snuck out. The Golden Boy of America, _stoned_ out of his _mind_, stepped out on _us."_

Clint turned to Tony, jaw tight, flexing his fingers across the counter. "Tony, we don't know how bad this is yet. Natasha said it was just two women. We don't know if this is just some kind of mishap. He's not bringing an army of horror on us—would you relax?"

"Relax. Really, Robin Hood? You want me to relax? You ever been tased? It's not fun."

"I've been thrown through three windows and landed on a rolled ankle—you wanna compare scars, Stark?" Clint's voice rose like a wave over his sarcasm.

Pepper's face screwed itself up into disbelieve. "When did you ever get tased?"

Tony waved his hands at her. "Back in 93', it wasn't a good year. And another thing! I'm kind of an old pro at getting electrocuted. A lot." He knocked a tightened fist along the extension in his chest, slightly glowing blue through the pattern of his grey sweater. His scowl pressed hard, and his face read out clearly what Tony would never say out loud himself. _Afghanistan_. Instead he twisted his tone upwards and smarmily said: "Man of electronics and dead batteries, right here."

"My friends, I feel as if it is pressing of me to warn that we are wasting precious time while our Captain lies in the snow." Thor's wise rumble seemed to quell the room.

Tony was sparking where he stood, orange flit coasting from his dark eyes, burning with repulsion.

"Whatever. Freakin'—whatever. Goldilocks can lift up Captain better than I can. I suppose it is New York. No one'd look twice to see a grown man carrying another grown man down the streets. Bystander effect and all." He ran a hand down his face, rubbing at his tired eyes. He snapped his fingers at Natasha again impatiently. "You said a name. That name. What was it again?"

Natasha's brows pricked. "Beth."

"Uh-huh." Tony huffed. He glanced around suddenly. "Well…if I can't go, at least take these."

He shifted around, pulling open drawers until he found what he was looking for. A loose silver folder was narrowly tossed out from where he stood—then another—at Clint's face. Luckily he reacted just in time to catch them both.

"What are these?" The spy had to ask, although the answer was clear as day. Tony's paranoia reached stage one: homework.

"You don't have time," Tony titled his neck to edge back at Barton. "But he does. He'll read you some interesting information I've found about who Cap's spending time with, plus someone who also had an account on her computer." Tony explained briskly. "And don't say I don't do anything nice for Rogers. He's keen, I'll say it, but his head is in the clouds—even when he's not crazy off of pain and junk. He should know better than to go frolicking around in the snow."

Clint just looked one part amused, and the other half defeated. "What about taking things easy, Tony?"

"Yeah, Barton. It was easy. Good point." Tony's hands dived into his jeans pockets, fishing out dimes, screws, tacks—something that looked like a condom wrapper. Finally, between his forefinger and middle finger, he held a crumpled napkin. "Easy as hell when his room is about as hard to break into as an old gym locker. Looks like one, too. Completely unloved."

"His room smells nicer than yours," Pepper remarked from her stool at the kitchen's island.

Tony pretended not to hear. "I found this number. Hers. This Beth girl. I knew her name sounded familiar. I knew I hadn't slept with a—"He stopped talking, regarding Pepper's death glare with a kindly smile. He ran his analyzing eyes over the name once more. "What a romantic gesture—getting tased."

"Bring him back safe," Pepper's eyes grew light blue in sadness, tapping hard on the table top to emphasize every word. "I can't believe I missed all this morning's drama."

"Back here?" Natasha's eyes held the room to her suddenly. "I need to find out why he dragged himself, blocks upon blocks, through the snow to see her. I'll make the call on what to do once I'm there. I'll bring as much cover as I can." She snatched up a black purse, a wallet, a makeup bag that every Avenger knew better than to mock unless they wanted mascara that would burn the moister from their eye sockets.

"Force him back if you have to," Tony added. "Call me. I'll be happy to help out with that."

Natasha eyed him agitatedly. "You'll force Captain America back from what he wants, Tony?"

"He's a soldier. He'll take the orders."

Natasha's face looked sparingly sad. "I think that kind of handling that got us into this mess to begin with."

"No," Tony said, his jaw tight. "What got us into this mess was this." He held up the napkin again, twisting the thin paper as if he imagined it burning between his fingertips. "That's the whole problem. We need to fix it. I'm good at that. I can fix things." Tony felt his team's eyes on him. "For his own good."

* * *

_"I certainly hope you're driving, and not Thor. I don't think I've ever seen him drive. In fact, I think he's a little weary of cars, ever since Jane's friend Darcy mowed him down like five times once. And, let's keep it that way, as I want to sleep at night."  
_  
"Just get to the files, Barton." Natasha retorted snippily.

_"Alright, alright, jeez—"_ The sound of shifting papers. "_Okay. Let's see. One Beth P. Ore. Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1989. Single. Never married. Never been in prison, never been arrested. Sheesh, I'm already bored."_ Barton clicked his teeth. "_Oh, here we go! Yah-wow. I'm glad I escaped the ol' 'higher education route'. It says here she's nearly 60 thousand dollars in debt just on student loans for her Geropsychology major._" There was a faint crackle in Clint's pause. _"Looks like a real trouble maker here, Natasha. I can see why Tony sounded the paranoid alarms."  
_  
"Spare me, Barton. Only important details. Recent medical history, deaths in the family. You're stuffing my ears full of meaningless nonsense."

_"Yeah. Stark is often full of that. You ever listen to him late at night? Guy talks to no one all the time, I swear."  
_  
Natasha refused to respond, the speedometer rising over 70 miles per hour in a 45 zone. Thor's eyes grew slightly wider from the passenger's seat—his giant fingers tight over the upper handle bar.

_"Riight,"_ Barton continued on. _"Says here…from Tony's elitist hacking skills that her most recent internet history consists of Hugh Jackman, The Phantom of the Opera Broadway tickets—and. Oh."  
_  
That peaked Natasha's attention. "What?"

_"She's looked up just about every damn health care professional in the New York city area, and then some. It looks like she's had some type of… breaks downs. She had a tab on how to treat panic attacks. Her last job record consists of the devastation site—where Tony took the plunge." _Another faint crackle._ "Jesus."_

"Suddenly you understand why Stark's delusions are turning up clues?"

_"I never said Stark wasn't right. It just seems like this Beth girl isn't a master mind at busting our defenses."  
_  
"Yet somehow she's involved with taking down America's greatest war hero with just a taser?"  
_  
"Touché, Miss_ _Romanova. Touché."_

"And the other one?"

_"Second file, right here. One Ronda G. Beauregard. Born in New York, New York, 1988." _Suddenly Barton sucked in a breath, whishing his air straight into the mic like a punch to the gut.

_"So. I think I found lil' Miss Taser, here. Classified run away at the age of 13. Boys and Girls clubs of American listings. Ah, looks like she turned it around—college at 23. Oh, of course. Same as Beth Ore's. Degree some unclassified Art deign, minor in Linguistics. Oh, nope. Fell off that wagon. Wow. Looks like we got ourselves a badass over here. She even has a police record. Says she's had possession of 'illegal narcotics', sneaking into clubs, scuffles with local punks. Locked up for 24 hours for biting some dude's hand."  
_  
"When was this?"

_"Back in 2007."_

_"Well,"_ Clint clicked over his bottom teeth. _"it seems like she's the one that did it, if you ask my profession opinion."_

"I didn't."

_"And we have no idea which one of these chicks Rogers wants to bang?"_

Natasha's green eyes glared daggers at the voice in her ear. "Barton, if you ever say that again, specifically in front of Rogers, I will make it my personal vendetta to see that you wake up missing more than a finger."

_"Natasha—come on, I was just messing around. Fine, fine. I'll stop. It's just wild, ya know? Steve's sneaking out to go see this woman. She must be special."_ A thoughtful pause. _"I bet he has a total fetish for hot ex-raider chicks. I'm calling it right here."_

Natasha signed, motioning to turn off her head piece—when suddenly Barton made an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat.

_"Hm. This might explain why Cap was hit."_ Clint cleared his throat slowly. _"I missed it, but there was some type of sexual assault episode. Weird part is that it doesn't say if Beauregard was the victim or not."_

Natasha's question came slower this time. "And…when was this?"

_"2005."_

"She probably was the victim."

There was a tense silence between them.

_"Ya don't think….that Steve…completely out of his mind on strong-ass S.H.I.E.L.D. medication, and pain, as we all know, like…attacked…someone."_

"Barton, stop talking." Natasha's knuckles turned white over the steering wheel. "Just stop."

_"Well, you sound sure of yourself."_

"Are you not?" Her voice rang back like an echo of guilt.

_"No…you're right,"_ Clint consented through the speaker. _"Tony's just…got me thinking all these messed up things. It's like we don't even know Rogers any more. Or what he wants. Or what they want with him."_ He swallowed quietly. _"Two civilian women. Brutally damaged super hero out of time. Yup. Sounds like a normal day for The Avengers."_

There's a forced cough on Barton's end of the line. _"Natasha?"_

"Yes?"

"_You'll be careful now, all right?"_ Clint measured out quietly to her.

"Is that a touch of concern I hear, Barton?"  
_  
_He shifted gears._ "You got Banner's bloodbag for Steve, just in case? Stand as well?"_

"Of course."

_"Perfect. We're getting the make-shift infirmary ready. Gotta go."_

* * *

Black boots crunched across the snow, muffled by the hum of traffic just a few yards down. Thor followed Natasha's lead, his weight sinking him through the snow with every footfall. Brown jacket zipped around the broadness of his towering frame, he had forced himself into a green sweater that Jane had given to him for his fourth visit to earth which read: "Starsmucker" in brilliant silver cursive across his chest. To this day he still didn't quite understand the humor. But it smelt of Jane and the drink of coffee, so for that he wore it.

Earth winter was null compared to Asgardian temperatures, where whole cities would die out in a single night of assaulted ice—but it was heavily insisted that he dawn earth apparel for the sake of identity. He laughed at such a jape—He was the son of Odin, bringer of lightening, and no puny human would ever laugh at him as they did before—surely all could know his name and see the truth. But Pepper gifted him with a woolly red cloth before departure and tied it tightly about his neck, and his question was never answered. It scratched his neck terribly, however, one look at Agent Romanova told Thor that his discomfort would not be a concern for a while. Natasha squinted hard into the distance, extremely aware of the pedestrian foot traffic.

"Tell me, Agent," Thor's dark blue eyes peered meaningfully at the snow. "The snow on Earth, it is purely white." He paused, leaned down, and scooped up blood red crystals between his fingers. "It is not meant to be the colour—what is it you claim it here—a kind of precious gem? 'Ruby'?"

"What? Rub—" Natasha spun wildly in confusion, but the sight took her breath away.

The snow was ruby. Tiny shades of sparkling red, frozen and sharp; blacken at their tips, soaking though, glinting grimly in the setting sunlight. It staggered itself in a straight line, occasionally weaving itself more left or right—but she tightened her fists at the sight. He left a trail for them in water and blood.

"Jesus Christ, Rogers. What the _fuck_ were you thinking?" Natasha's voice echoed against the trees, harsh and grating to her own ears.

"He was not," Thor observed calmly as he kneaded the freshly bloodied snow out of his grasp. "He knew only what compelled him forward."

* * *

It was simple luck that they had arrived alone, her and Thor. The park seemed empty as the sprinted closer to their goal. All she asked of Thor is that he agreed to any human title or custom thrusted upon to him—if it came to any. Names weren't important. Just Steve's condition and crowds of people.

The area was secure when they found them. Two light haired young women, with a body lying in the snow just beyond the edge of a wooden bench. One of women had hands over Steve's chest, the other his side. Natasha nearly shoved one of them away from Steve, she was so livid at the sight—but it was obvious that yellow haired girl was crying—it was apparent she had been for quite from time. A hand flew to Natasha's purse.

It seemed like Beth blinked and this shadow of a woman appeared, grasping her hands and pulling her carefully away from Steve. She couldn't look away from the pain in his eyes—he was just staring up into the sky—completely catatonic.

"Ma'am, it's going to be all right." Something quickly flashed before Beth's eyes, laminated and stamped. "I have medical field training."

"Thank _God _someone's here!" The taller woman held tight against Steve's side, pushing in with more force than necessary—she was just squeezing more blood out. Her shirt was a tangled mess—ripped with nails to use as a make shifted bandaged that didn't last long. Thor took noticed of a wet blackened rag tossed into the lumps of snow.

"Are you—are you?" Beth's voice was struggling to escape her shaking lips. "I called for—"

"Yes," Natasha sank into the snow beside her, purse open, pulling out actual gauze, tubes, tape, and something plastic and red—a blood bag. "I'm the Natasha you called from Steve's phone."

More tears drifted from her eyes, a shuddering gasp. She held up her palms, bright red—Natasha's eyes raked over her quickly and took notice of just how bloodied she was. Her skirt, her legs, her neck, a spot in her shoulder—she was covered in blood. If someone saw her like this, it would be all over.

"Donald, cover her, now." Natasha nodded towards the girl in the snow. Thor did not respond to his new name at first, but quickly he was shrugging off his brown jacket. "Names?"

"Ronda," the snow-white hair of the woman before her called, fingers wet and dripping. "_I _fucked this up so much. I am so sorry. I thought he was hurting her. I panicked. I thought the blood was _hers_."

Natasha tried to ignore the blood pulsing out into the snow. She had no idea he had lost so much. _What had he done? What had this idiot girl—_Her eyes flew wide. Bruce had mentioned it before that Steve's heart was near palpations with the jolt of Thor's lightening. Now he was hit again. Of course—his heart was thudding out even harder.

"My friend, Beth—she was just sitting there, and blood was everywhere—and he—he was gripping her so _hard_, I just—" Her voice splintered suddenly and she rocked on her feet, both bloodied hands pressed to her open eyes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Natasha instantly went to work over the soldier's side as Ronda rambled on. A steel knife cut through the bare nothing of his shirt. Fingers parted the frost sealed to his angry flesh—she cut her thread and needle, and began coolly stitching up Steve's side. The second the tip entered his white flesh, she swore she could see his skin tissue vibrating—as if it was reaching for its other half. She blinked, and it was gone.

"What type of taser did you use?"

"A M18L. I bought it years ago—I figured it lost a lot of its punch—but his wound was already there. I had no idea he was already bleeding out. I would have never done it if I had known. But he acted like he didn't even know it—he wasn't asking her for help."

Beside her, the yellow haired girl just sat and stared blankly. There was even blood on her face, a strip frozen along her cheek. Thor leaned over her, his eyes tight—analyzing her for wounds.

"He grabbed her, you said?" Natasha continued, thoughts blazing through her skull. Her nerves raged in her arm. Steve actually touched this civilian. They actually had a reason for defense. She couldn't believe it.

"She made a sound like she was in pain. So I took the shot. That's it. That's the whole story." Ronda's voice was steadier now as she watched, amazingly, this friend of Beth's attacker lay stitch after stitch into his side.

"Shit," Natasha cursed. Her fingers shook the needle from her grasp. She pushed around for her needle in the snow, but it was gone. She reached into her purse for a new one. "It's too cold—my hands are _freezing_, I can't keep doing this here—he's losing too much blood."

She looked upwards her partner, her eyes guarded as she spoke directly to him. "He can't stay here. I know he's Steve, but we have to get him somewhere warm, and fast."

"Hospital?" Ronda offered, the word wisps on the wind.

"Not enough time," Natasha countered. "Not enough time to call for an a regular ambulance, either. We have car. We can move him—and we have the supplies." A hand tore at her hair. "I don't know what to do—we'll have to call F—"

"My apartment." Beth whispered softly. It was the first thing she'd said in what felt like hours. "It's closer than the hospital."

_"What?"_ Ronda hissed, her eyes livid. She turned back to Natasha. "Beth's in shock. No, it's not."

Natasha's green eyes greedily flashed to Beth's, burning and burning and burning into her.

"You're telling the truth." The red head declared in a split second. " If we drive, can you take us back there?" She was already on her feet, Beth's hand tight in her grasp, aching her bones. "Th—"She flinched, "Donald, pick Steve up as gently as you can. We have to go."

"Beth," Ronda's green eyes were digging into the blonde's shoulders. _"What are you doing?"_

"I don't know," Beth answered her, her voice toneless. She looked at her hands, cold and red—like a dead body. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fall apart. She wanted to punch everyone in the face. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

"Thank you." The woman named Natasha said sternly. Then her voice became gentle, only it now seemed to be falling away. "You did the right thing by calling me. You're saving his life, Beth."

_Saving. Saving._ The words twisted in her ears. She took a step backwards. This _wasn't_ saving. He was dying. He was dying right here in the snow. He was dying and she couldn't do _anything._

She just stared at Steve—the larger man had picked him up effortlessly—and she watched his arms swing lifelessly through the air. Through the air. The air like other lifeless bodies had flown, torn in half—red and black and covered in smoke. All around her. She felt naked, although she looked at her clothes. She was covered in black frozen splashes of blood. Steve's blood. Her blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

"Beth!" Arms were around her, but she only felt a tightness in her chest that was crushing her lungs. She couldn't breathe. "Oh god, Beth. Beth, honey, look at me. Look at _me."_

She tried to, but she couldn't see. It was white. Everywhere was white and red. She opened her mouth and tasted clothing—someone had shoved the pad of a jacket against her mouth—she bit down hard on it—nails stabbing into a solid figure.

She knew she couldn't scream if she suffocated herself first.

* * *

There was a car. Explanations. The exchange of keys. The opening of a door. Flooring. Tiles. Carpet. People were talking. The woman, man, and Steve disappeared for a while into a room that looked familiar. Someone's hand was on her neck, leading her forward. She kept stopping. She didn't want to go into the darkness. Another door opened. Something shiny was in the corner. Her knees bent on their own. A hand held back her hair. Vomit. Water churned in a circle. She turned in a circle. Vomit. She looked upwards. The walls were a pale blue. Sea shells. Turtles. Vomit.

"Let's clean you up, okay?" A voice told her.

Okay?

Beth told the voice that nothing was okay. Nothing was _ever_ going to be okay. But her mouth never moved. She said it again—this time her tongue moved. Her voice was raspy. That couldn't be her talking.

A silver nozzle. Warm water. A white bowl that stared up at her with a tiny silver drain. Someone's hands. Hers. Bubbles. Red. Red. Bubbles. Red. Red. Red. It wasn't coming off. Water. Hers. Yellow bile mixed with red. Someone was crying. Someone was screaming. She was pressed against the floor, tasting the tiles.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

* * *

Now I'm hoping just a little bit stronger.

Hold me up just a little bit longer.

I'll be fine, I swear.

I'm just gone beyond repair.

- "Jersey", Mayday Parade

* * *

**AN: **I swear to God I'm writing this novel length story just so I could have Tony yell phrases the use both "stoned" and "Captain America" in the same sentence.

Thank you so much again everyone. You guys. Seriously. How do even I begin to thank? You know what to do! Questions? Comments? Anyone get some references I laced in there? ;)


	17. Atonement

**AN: **Let's see what's happened so far….Steve went insane. Check. The rest of the Avengers are on different opinionated sides of the issue. Check. And Beth's having a panic attack. Check. WELL LET'S GET THIS SHOW GOING AGAIN. (Nearly 100 reviews? Holy crap guys. You all are too kind. AND NEW PEOPLE ADDING ON IN FAVOURITES AND FOLLOWS. Jeesh guys. It's like this story is good or something.)

* * *

_"The closer you get to the light, the greater your shadow becomes…"_

* * *

Her knees were pushed so hard against her chest she thought she'd pop like a balloon. She'd flatten out against her bathroom floor and cease to exist. It'd be that simple. If only she knew how to pop her heart without a sharp object. Damn Ronda. Beth wasn't sure if minutes or hours had gone by since she saw the ruby of a nose ring swinging back and forth, catching the dim light in the disparagingly pale windows. Ronda had taken everything even remotely toxic or sharp away before she left to "give space". Clever girl even took the Dove soap that smelled like mint—and not the smell of vomit that stuck to every pore on her body.

She hated this. She hated herself.

Beth's fingers crawled up her legs, towards her neck, feeling at her blotchy eyes. She didn't think a human being could physically hold so much water in them. She thought this would be over by now. She felt like she was floating outside of her own body, staring down at this pathetic person that was shivering in the dark. She was tethered at the eyelashes, minuscule black ropes that refused to let her go. She watched herself take a breath, and she was sucked back into the cage of her lungs, using her own hands to shake against the bars of her ribs to form a heartbeat.

She was going to start panicking again. She needed to get a grip. Soon.

She smacked her palms against the cold tile beneath her, wanting her nerves to tingle in shock, closing her eyes. She breathed again, waiting, rocking slightly.

There was something important that she needed to be doing.

Something someone had said to her, and now she was breaking that promise.

Beth thudded the back of her head against the wall, pulsing out thoughts, furious with herself.

_Please._ She thought hard, knitting her sweaty brows together hard. _Universe. Tell me what to do._ _Please._

Her eyes burst open, the room tilted and suddenly she was sprawled forward with an epiphany.

_"Please."_ Steve had whispered to her, lips chapped and broken blue eyes aching, reaching for her. _"Please_ don't…don't freak out.'

_Don't freak out._ Beth stared at her hands, shaking them hard. Reaching out.

_Don't freak out. _She shifted up, hand against the wall, moving towards the flickering golden keyhole back into the darkness. Golden light reflected into her pale blue eyes. Her fingernails glittered against the door knob. She was blinded as she stepped outside of herself. She turned back, wanting to run again for the comfort behind her. What hollow comfortable arms that they were. Her shadow twisted with her, large against the floor, waiting patiently, thin fingers pointing at her, beckoning her. She pushed the door harder, forcing through. The shadow behind her was terrifying.

_Don't—_

* * *

Natasha didn't believe in God. She didn't believe in the childish idea of a savior, much less the idea of true love, or the comfort of family. The closest she ever gained for a home was her Russian inductions to espionage. Her training took no prisoners for a young child. No one taught her how to pin up her hair. No opened arms stood her up when she fell—and she fell a lot. No one told her that ballerinas pranced on stages, and not frozen lakes—toes blacken from their will to raise her above everything else in her miserable existence. Death, winter and training were merciless. Other unwanted children would come and go—some never to be seen again, and she didn't believe that some warm and gentle spirit stole sickly children in the night and guided them, soaring, to the heavens.

There was a time, however, when she wanted to believe that more than anything. She was not a bastard. She had purpose. She had ambition. She even had a bible—bent, and possibly stolen from the clutches of small skeletal hands that would not move to read it ever again.

But it was lost in the ashes of the hospital fire as well. That fire consumed everything about her adolescent life. Everything but her faith.

Her first murder pressed down on her. Her orders recoiled like the venom of a snake. One bitten, you could try to suck it out—lace it back through your veins with each swallow. Again. The stroke of a knife to a throat—another man to bare, to bed, to bite. Eventually death became a force that she carried—ashes ribboning through her finger tips with every curdled cry for mercy. Orders again, and she left her country. Changed her name. Became deadly, feminine, and was no longer a scared, pitiful child.

Her name changed often. Her hair never needed pins when it was hacked with steel knifes. Her toes never arched for a spotlight, a light bruising of pink slippers, someone to catch her. She was numbed to her nature. Embraced to be raw and careful. She was, in her own eyes, disturbingly perfect.

Then she was told she could never bare a child like herself. Told by the Winter Soldier, of all men that she did not kill.

Of all love he offered that she did not take.

Her faith did not crumple. It did not fade. It did not stop. It just howled inside of her, screaming, sobbing, until she burned her life down again.

Her perfection evaded the corners in her heart that she could not mend. And Natasha, suddenly, could not heal. Even when she tried, in vain, but she never changed again.

So she forced her own metamorphosis into a creature that was not reptilian. No longer would she willingly poison herself. She took a new code name that black listed her. Widowed her. She thought it poignant that it was devoured by its own young. Tasteful that they were cannibalistic. Cunning that they killed their mates.

A perfect killing machine that did not have to believe in anything. No longer people. No longer relationships. No longer _бог._

She didn't believe that if you prayed hard enough, pressed your palms together in confession that your sins were cleansed, and you would sleep for the first time in years that very same night. Nothing can make you pure. Only children are pure. Infants. Infants like her, born into shadows, tossed away towards the creaking floorboards of myriad Russian orphanages.

You can only be slighted. Only be beaten and reattached. Love was for children. Faith was for those that never had to peel the skin of their dreams back in terror that there was nothing waiting for you when you awoke in the morning. Or that all of your dirty sins were waiting for you when you'd close them forever.

She only knew that if you were careful, if you were lucky, you could be spared.

That was the only thing she thought when Steve's pale face twitched, slight blue slits opening, before closing again. She couldn't let him lapse without a cognitive check. The lightest push again on his side—and instantly he lurched upwards, mouth twisted in pain, his teeth stained with blood. She managed a tight lip scowl that threatened relief to her face.

_"Schastlivogo Rozhdestva,"_ She muttered, grasping Steve's shoulder to hold him steady. "You're alive."

His bright blood-shot eyes touched hers for only a second. His neck twisted wildly to look all around him. Tall ceiling. Something sinking beneath him—something soft and watery was covering him—he gasped, thrashing with his legs. A powerful kick shifted the entire chair away from the bedside leaving only seconds for Natasha to brace herself—only to find himself locked down hard. Extremely hard.

"I do not know the customary phrase to ease you, Captain, but I am prepared to contain you until you exhaust what little energy you have." Strong iron bars seemed to squeeze around his bicep like the force of a raging bull. "I am not so foolish as to underestimate your strength, as you did mine own. "

Steve continues to struggle, eyes to Thor. Eyes to Natasha. For a single still moment, it was as he didn't know them. Steve shifted against a pillow—tongue shamelessly checking his teeth along his shredded sore gums.

Thor's thick mane tossed itself in her direction, yellow, dim in the little moonlight through the window, which sometimes shifted red and green from some distant Christmas décor. His face, as big as it was, masterfully hid his absolute confusion. Natasha only noticed his concern when he stirred quietly, the lowest rumble she had ever heard the God of Thunder speak.

"What act is Captain Rogers preforming?"

Natasha's green eyes flickered tightly, an unsettling pit opening in her stomach. She couldn't answer. She didn't want to think about it. She just needed him to stop.

"Steve." She grasped his large hand, squeezing as hard she could. "It's all right. Everything is fine. It's just Thor and I."

He froze slightly, blue eyes beak and scared. He flexed his jaw. His eyes lowered—slowly, his fingers responded around Natasha's.

"You've been drifting in and out of consciousness. Do you know where you are right now?"

Slowly, he shook his head, making the room twirl.

Another breath. The real question. "Do you know who I am?" She bit her lip. "What year it is?"

Clocks were everywhere in his room back at the Tower, but here there was nothing. He looked. It was all cool shadows and blue hues. He didn't know.

"Nineteen—" He began ravenously. Then he paused. Swallowed so loudly it made his ears ring. He was positive they could hear it, too. "2013."

Natasha could breathe again. She gripped both his hand tightly, wishing she could honestly hug him.

"Nat—" His voice sounded like razor blades cut up his vocal cords. His eyes shifted again. "Thor. I—" A ragged cough pounded his chest—water formed in the ducts of his eyes that he couldn't force back. He paled further, matching the pillow under his head. A hand sloppily reached for his side, but he couldn't lift it all the way. "Haven't felt…pain like that…in a'while."

Thor's usually bright, expression filled face seemed empty in his sorrow. It didn't look right on him. "I am gravely mournful of your current state, Captain."

Natasha blew out some air, and let her hands turn Steve's wrist over, pulling slightly at the hollow tubes attached. "It shouldn't for long. I think this might actually help you this time. Maybe."

Even Steve scoffed at this, but it turned into a raspy cough. "That's one prayer I won't get answered." He grimaced again, teeth grinding. "Never has."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Steve leaned against the pillows, wishing he could smother himself. "Somethin' about…taking a shower." His eyes narrowed as he concentrated, but it left his temples throbbing. "Yeah, that's it. I was talking to Banner about having a shower and…I think I got one."

"You think?"

He blinked hard. "I sure hope."

A short pause. Natasha sighed out her nose, a hand holding up her chin. "Steve…that was a long time between now, and where you were."

Blue eyes glinted sharply through the shadows. "Were?"

His eyes tried to focus, but they remained shrinking from the slightest light. There were dark things along the walls. Dark tiny things that wouldn't stop moving. Spots covering and opening. He managed to make out some type of animal in the corner. A fake one. "This…this isn't my room?"

Natasha's mouth set itself firmly, preparing to explain, but Steve caught on faster than she could form words.

"That…makes sense. Looks…a little too…cuddly. Where am I? Sure doesn't look like a hospital…or a S.H.I.E.L.D. rest area…"

Her eyes remained as unreadable as ever. "Don't worry about that."

Steve squinted at her, back ridged against the mattress. He hated being played for some cheap idea that he wasn't wise to when someone lying to him. "Natasha. Where am I?"

The spy flexed her fingers against the material of her glove. "Safe."

"I get that—well, safe enough besides Thor bear hugging me till I choke to death. You know what I want to know. What happened?" Steve returned to looking slowly around the darkness of some kind of bedroom. "How…how did I get here?"

"Well. You. Basically. You might not remember it, but you left Stark Tower."

"I—what?"

"And called someone," Natasha allotted gently. "A…a Beth."

Steve stared at her. His knuckles made hard rocks in the sheets. His breathing seemed to stop.

It might as well have. Everything was stopping for him. It took a lot to make Natasha feel sympathy for someone, but the way he was just _looking_ at her…it was like he was being re-told he wouldn't see anyone he'd known from seventy years ago ever again.

"Beth?" Steve's voice rasped hoarsely. "How…how do you know that name?"

"She saved your life. You called her, and you both met but—"Natasha stopped herself. Complications weren't necessary.

He looked like a caged animal, his eyes were so wide. "Is…she…is she here?"

"She can't see you right now."

His heart gave a painful skip. He tried to rise up. _"What?"_

"Hey," Natasha's strong grip pushed him back down. "Sorry. I didn't—I meant literally. Well. No. She's…She's…in shock. The other woman took her into another room. She was having a panic attack when Thor and I finally got there." Natasha paused, her eyes heavy. "There was a lot of blood, Rogers. A lot."

"Oh my God," Steve brushed at his face—something wet came away from his cheek. It was too dark to see exactly what it was. Probably blood. Mostly tears that he couldn't feel. He prayed he wasn't crying. He couldn't be. This wasn't happening.

"You were bleeding out for blocks. You fainted against her—blood got everywhere due to your actions and their own. No was one hurt."

"No one…was hurt," Steve repeated numbly. "Y'mean…there was a chance I hurt someone?"

"You didn't," Natasha urged. "You were just…well. We don't know what you were doing, honestly."

"We?" Steve's throat was sandpaper, turning his voice shrill. That had to be the reason he sounded so weak.

"All of us. Tony, Clint, Bruce."

This time it took even longer for Steve to respond. "Everyone…everyone knows about Beth?"

It was then Natasha knew exactly what Steve wanted to hear. She told herself it was for his own good. Possibly Tony's. Natasha knew Steve had been trying so hard to break free of his depression. Tony was a nuisance. Beth was a solution, perhaps. And Steve needed rest, not to worry himself sick if he possibly could any further. Further complications weren't necessary.

"No. That is between you, myself, and Thor. No one else knows. I was referring to your escape. Your location when we found you."

"Central Park," he whispered in realisation. He pressed a hand against his forehead, digging into the cuts that started blazing around the pressure. "Oh my _God."_

"Don't do this to yourself, Steve." Natasha's voice stayed low and crisp beside him. "You were hurt. In unimaginable amounts of pain. You…you obviously needed her for a reason."

"I was cold," Steve said lowly. He then chuckled—ratting his bones until they seemed like sharp stickers for a fire pit, digging into his sides. He wanted to laugh so hard. It was hilarious This was_ rich. _He chuckled again, edging on hysterics. "I—I called her because I was _cold_—isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard?"

Thor's eyes remained calm, like the stars above New York City's smog filled atmosphere. "I have heard more tragic tales. The only sorrow we see is that we could not help our ally."

Natasha felt the hole in her stomach open wider, watching him struggle not to breathe, or laugh, or cry. She reached up her hand and placed it gently on his forehead, feeling the sticky sweat drops beaming down his face. In the dark it was hard to tell, but he was burning up. Natasha flustered, dabbing at his face, the clamminess of his skin. What should have been hypothermia to a normal person, if not death, turned into a full-fledged fever for the Super Soldier.

Without a word she injected the morphine pack, hooking it through the IV and blood bag strung tightly to the thin silver stand next to the bed. If the morphine, fluids, or blood pact had any true effect on him, she would instantly know he was worse off than originally thought. She cursed Thor's swinging arm.

"Steve, "She had to fight to get his attention—he was looking everywhere. His eyes glowing frightening with alarm. "Do you still feel cold?"

He swallowed the shard of glass caught in his throat, slicing him open from mouth to chest. "I always feel cold."

"Why don't you lay down, okay?" She resisted pushing him back. It probably wouldn't have moved him an inch in this state. She'd have to talk him down. She hated this. She hated showing this side of herself.

He shivered, staring hard into space, not quite listening. "Steve?"

Then he slowly looked at her, his eyes slightly off. "Natasha, please tell me one thing. Where am I? Really?"

He sounded so desperate. Natasha forced herself to pull sheets over him, knowing it wouldn't do a damn thing to help him. She probably couldn't do much more for him. Not even the morphine. She could still see the fiery rage of pain shooting through his eyes, his limbs in twitches and stalls.

"You're safe. In a bed. You need to lie down." She was so bad at this bedside manners bullcrap. Where was Doctor Banner when you needed him?

Delayed, he nodded, easing back down.

"So…so I'm not going back home?"

A thin piece cracked off and sank into the jaws inside of her, nibbling, slowly taking her down with it. The red-haired spy had an answer, a voice, a method to work any conversation her way, but she didn't know what home Steve meant anymore.

Her emotional spectrum shorted out. She should be saying more. She could lie for a single moment of peace for him. She was a master at deceit. She could do anything she wanted. But Natasha Romanova only stared at the torment in Steve's eyes, unable to fight it with any of her skills. She was defenseless against his fear.

"No," Natasha whispered, slowly. "I'm sorry."

He paled, turning whiter than the sheets, the darkness making his blue eyes fade out like the final stars before being covered up by city lights. His blond hair seemed grey in the passing moonlight. He looked up at the ceiling, his blinking becoming slower and slower. He kept shivering, knuckles tight across the sheets, balled up around him, completely uncomfortable with all those eyes on him. Suddenly, a massive shudder ripped through him, knocking him out completely—Natasha gasped, reaching out—but Thor stopped her. One hand was to hold her back. The only was wrapped around the morphine pack. A slight indent was in the bag from where he had squeezed it.

* * *

Beth sat herself on the black leather back of her sofa, a mug with spicy steam rising from it shoved into her hands. They'd stopped shaking. Soon her legs did as well. She was warm, although Ronda continuously paced from room to room as if she was waiting for the proper moment to pop out from behind a door and yell: "ah-_hah!"_ at the strangers within Beth's bedroom. Although, they weren't so strange anymore. Ronda had explained to her, begrudgingly, that the red head, Natasha, was also recently returned from her station, specifically trained for medical field emergencies and equipment sabotage. The large muscly dude was foreigner from somewhere off the European coastlines. A gym partner to Steve's training rudiments. When she asked about Steve, Ronda only became surprisingly quiet.

Eventually Ronda perched herself on the couch arms. Her green eyes glance offhandedly to Beth. "You okay, Princess?"

Beth watched the ripples in her cocoa. "More or less, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," Ronda said quietly, her eyes tight on the floor. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do more for you."

Beth shifted uncomfortably as well, fingers tight over the handle. "You did everything for me. Thank you. Really. I'm…m' sorry you had to see me like that."

Ronda smiled ever so slightly, trying to lighten the mood. "I've seen worse. I've seen you wasted."

Beth resisted the urge to chuck her hot liquid at her newly found red ring target, charging for a subject change that didn't involve rehashing the talk of _therapy, Baker Act, _or_ dysfunctional_. "At least I'm not as obnoxious as you are! Karaoke night? How many times can you shriek out _Journey?_"

"Weren't you up on stage with me?"

"Do I _look_ like a 5'11 brunette?"

"Well, I won us a gift card to Applebee's."

"Which you said was 'over-hyped garbage' and you chucked at the MC."

"Huh. That's what happened to it?"

The door opened just out of the corner of Beth's eye, and she froze. Ronda stiffed up, her chin raised. She crossed her arms, her legs. Then decided she couldn't stand in the room any longer. She passively looked to Beth as she made for the kitchen, her eyes dark with warning: _this is so fucked up._

In a more coherent state, Beth instantly decided that Natasha was probably the scariest woman she had ever met in her life. Her dark eyes sized Beth up with a single look, razors to her skin. She felt sick all over again. She had trouble remembering how to properly hold a mug. Or take a sip, for that matter. It just seemed to splash at her face, completely missing her open mouth.

"Beth," Natasha held the young woman's name in her mouth, grinding it against her bottom teeth, her eyes tight. Cold gems twinkled from the auburn haired spy. Beth tried her best to not just look at her and cry. Her eyes hurt from crying so much. They leaked fear. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks," Beth mumbled, her lips tight. She didn't care at all for pleasantries. "Steve—how—"

"Asleep. He'll probably be for a few hours, we think."

Natasha lied to Beth as much as she was lying to herself. He'd burn through that pack in 45 minutes, maybe less. She couldn't tell with the blood loss.

_We?_ It was then Beth took notice of the tower of her friend behind her. It was strange that a man with such grit could appear to blend in so well.

"Oh," She sighed in relief. "That's good. That's good…right?"

"Yes," it was the first positive thing she'd heard Natasha say. "It is."

"Will he be staying? Will…you two? You're welcome," Beth added, as an afterthought for their keeping, trying to make her tone pleasant, but that was hard. "if you want."

Something flashed behind Natasha's eyes. Something lurking. She felt like an insect pinned, fascinated by the light in her eyes. The secret answer to her question. A hand felt at Natasha's chin. She turned on a short heel to speak with her comrade's eyes—soon she faced back again.

"It is a consideration. Considering his condition." Her eyes studying the apartment, location, Beth. "And if you can accept something from me."

Beth swallowed hard, cocoa searing her throat. She placed the mug at her feet just so she wasn't tempted to do that again. "What now?"

"Feel this." She walked so quietly Beth had trouble reading if she had moved at all. She placed something cold and heavy into her nervous hands, and carefully coiled her long fingers around the blonde's. "Do you feel this?" Beth just stared at her in disbelieve. Natasha tried not to demand more from the tragic child. She was giving them so much without even realizing it. "_Do _you?"

Muscles hardened against Natasha's hand. "Wh—what is it?"

"If you want Steve here, this is going to protect you." Natasha shook their hands carefully. "Think of it as a simplified version of a panic alarm." Slowly, Beth felt the entire boreing down force of stolid green emeralds glittering fathomlessly at her. "If you feel threatened. Ever." Heavy, the eyes stole from her face and turned to stare at her bedroom door. "If Steve wakes up and starts to scare you. If you feel the slightest moment of discomfort you will promise me one thing. You will trigger this device. It will handle everything."

Beth swallowed, trying to keep her lips from trembling. She pushed the square thing back into the other woman's grueling grasp. "I don't _want _this."

"But you want this man in your home, correct?"

"I—" Beth glanced at her bedroom door. "I—"

"Yes?" If this woman's eyes could burn, Beth knew she'd be a statue of ashes. "Or no? It's a simple question."

"I—I—don't know! He called _me._" Beth lashed out, bracing her knuckles against her temples, pushing in, trying to make it all stop. "He called _me._" She repeated again, slowly. "You're his friend. He should have called _you._ He could have called _anyone_ else—but he came to me." She clasped the raw red-dyed skin of her palm over her lips, holding her words back. Too many questions—but all she could do was mutter: "You know him a thousand times better than I do." Beth paused, gathering her courage to look Natasha full in the eyes.

Frustratingly, the woman before her never seemed to blink. Beth dug her nails into her cheek.

"Do_ you_ think he'd want to be here? With me?" She sniffed into her palm, covering her inflamed nose, burning from the liquid that wouldn't cease. "You saw me earlier." Beth's blue eyes sank. "I don't think I can help him. I don't know the first thing about medical previsions. What if something happens? …I'll—" It all flashed before her. Her leading him to sit beside her at the 3-D booth. The screens roaring loud, pouring all sorts of violence across the screens. An expulsion of bright, blistering orange that rocked them both. . The fear locked across his features. And all she did was panic. All she did was apologize.

Apologizing wouldn't save him now.

"I know I'd be useless." She finished quietly.

The fire behind those hard eyes seemed to die down, if only a little. She considered this for the briefest of seconds—her response flawless, yet slightly withdrawn. "He is stable." Natasha debated the best way to lay out Steve's damage to the civilian. He would heal so fast—she couldn't say anything was broken—hours from now it would be spit, melted back, perfectly formed like a seamstress's needle work across his organs. "He will recover quickly." She decided weightily.

Her eyes flickered all around Beth's face, almost as if she was painting a bigger picture with just her irises. Beth could only cringe at what this woman must be seeing on her.

"Steve has a knack for pushing himself until he breaks. He is stubborn. But so is his body. He's no longer hemorrhaging internally. He is just very badly bruised. He checked at a walk in clinic before meeting you. We have records of a medication that thinned his blood that he received there. It explains his….behavior. All he needs now is someplace to be. Preferably where he won't move. But we cannot stay. But I think this is for the better, honestly."

Beth just continued to breathe at her, ribs shuddering. _How does that make sense? _Her thoughts whispered.

"I can see the distrust in your eyes, Miss Ore—but I'm going to make a call and say that for the best it's—"

"And can you _blame_ her?" A furious voice snapped from the darkness. The other woman—she had changed into a non-ripped t-shirt haphazardly forced into shotty jean jacket, torn at the cuffs. She planted herself next to Beth immediately, one arm about her shoulders, crushing her hard into her chest. "He was _bleeding_ all over her."

"If he had known of his injury, he would have never walked out like that. He was extremely drugged by the—"

"Oh but he did, didn't he? 'High out of his mind' is some excuse? Asking Beth to meet alone in Central Park? What kind of a person does that? Where were you two to help him?"

"We were not told. If we had known of this, this would have never occurred. And for that, we are sorry." The man's voice rumbled, distinctly upset. "But the issue stands for Rogers's safety. He does not need hospitalization. However, if he must be moved, it will be a large burden for not only myself. He had lost a lot of blood. Thusly, I cannot take him without some cause for a grand emergency. If I do this, I only feel it would add more stress onto him." His stormy blue eyes studied Beth in acute concentration. She felt a tiny tingle on the back of her legs. "And for your companion."

Ronda's eyes narrowed dangerously. "He shouldn't be here. He should be in a hospital. Maybe a _mental_ hospital. I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. I don't know if you can see this, but he _forced_ himself on my best friend and then_ bled_ all over her. Of course she doesn't trust you! I don't trust you. I don't trust him." Her stark white hair swirled as she gawked at Beth. "I have no fucking idea why Beth's even putting up with your bullshit! She's lying to you, Beth! This is wrong! This is some fucked up joke. He can't stay with you. It's bad enough he even knows where you live! Does anyone in this room have any common sense?"

Natasha didn't even bat an eye at Ronda's outrage. "It appears your friend is quite hysterical."

"I'm hysterical? _I'm_ hysterical?" Ronda's fingers splintered outwards, digging into the arm of the black leather couch. Her voice lowered frantically. "Did you not watch me drag Beth to the bath—?! Listen here, sister. Beth's been through a lot. A fucking _lot._ The Battle of New York? She was in the _middle_ of that clusterfuck—and bless her freakin' heart, she's still recovering from it. Do you think she needs this right now? Some guy that's lying in her bed, bleeding black over her comforters? Are you insane to think I'm being unreasonable right now?"

The tall broad guy—his name escaped Beth's memory—cut in fast. "I, for one, completely understand where it is you are speaking from. You are deeply concerned for your friend. You are being brave about this when you see your friend is emotionally weak." His dark blue eyes made the hair on Ronda's neck rise, like she was about to touch a metal bar seconds before an static shock met her fingertip. "But you are forgetting that it is not your decision to make. It is your friend. You can only voice your opinion, and then must resolve to silence."

"Give me a fuckin' break—"

"Do you respect your friend?" The richness in his voice thickened, seeming to boom in challenge. "Would you step down if you knew, in your heart, that was her final answer, whether you disagreed?"

Ronda's brows fluttered forward spitefully. "Who _are_ you?" Ronda's green eyes leapt for Beth's, huge and desperate for the slightest idea that she wasn't just being a bitch. This was crazy. This was disturbingly crazy. "Beth—of course I respect my friend. But _respect_ won't stop men from hurting her. Respect won't stop _anyone_ from hurting her!" Ronda bristled. "In fact, it's that same idealization of respect that burns this whole damn city down to the ground. It doesn't _exist_ here. It's a goddamn _lie_ that gets girls cornered and _raped._"

Something ancient seemed to groan behind the long hair guy's eyes. "I find it shameful that you would group all men into such a category. I can assure you entirely that Captain Rogers is none such of an evil caliber."

"Captain?" Ronda sputtered. "He's—a _what?"_

"Military grade. Captain. Leader of the highest command." Natasha thrusted in quickly, her voice melting into the statement, tasting not so fully like a lie.

"He's a captain," Ronda muttered, her eyes watery around the edges from yelling. "Then why is he here? Why was he discharged?"

"He was never discharged." Natasha's voice flatted darkly. "He took a leave—there was a re-call of strong personnel after The Battle of New York. He is very highly respected."

"He has PTSD." Ronda admitted, bracing for their reaction to that. Beth's hand was suddenly strongly in Ronda's grasp, and she pulled Beth closer to her. "Beth saw this. Don't even try to tell me it's not true."

Thor and the spy exchanged one quick sharp look. One came away grim. The other sighed.

"Steve…is a good man." Natasha's lips fought to say those hidden feelings she felt. It was hard, so hard to pry them from the depths of her deaden emotional spectrum, but she had to be clear. "But he's not perfect. He suffers from what he's seen, what he's done." Natasha explained coolly. "But he would never hurt a kind person. He just….needs someone new in his life." Natasha gestured to Beth, pressed into Ronda's shoulder. "Someone, perhaps, like you, Beth. I think that would help him very much."

Beth swallowed thickly, her eyes still stinging. "I have…I have it, too." She motioned to the door, back to herself as if that explained what she didn't want to say to these strangers, to her best friend, even though they all saw her shame. "I understand what he feels. Maybe." Her voice got small. "To some tiny, tiny degree."

The auburn spy's lips seemed to press harder against one another, her green eyes masterfully gazing at the two women before her. She wasn't lying. Stark was right. Computer history and all. But still, she had to test her. "Have you sought help?"

"I'm planning on it. Sometime soon. I got busy—I—" Beth paled. "I. Well, I had a date."

For some reason, this created the _sharpest_ of smiles across Natasha's face that Beth had ever seen. She swore that if she saw that auburn woman kiss a man right then, he'd shred himself to death on her lips.

"It's settled then. He stays for the night. You have the panic button. You have my number, and Donald's." Natasha's stone eyes set themselves to Thor's ever so slightly, but the Asguardian did not reject his fake title.

"She didn't say anything yet, Natasha." Ronda hissed, her eyes clouded in disdain.

Finally, Natasha blinked, almost as if Ronda's use of her name had slapped her. "Well, Miss Ore?"

"Ah—" Beth fingers curled tight around Ronda's, watching her best friend side her thumb over her bloodied knuckle. She swallowed. Tested her voice. Now she was biting her bottom lip. In her other hand she felt the smooth cold plastic of the panic button—fragile and vastly omnipotent. _Why would I need to use this? Who are these people?_

"If he needs me. If he wants to be here," She agreed meekly. "I…I think you have a point. All of you. But I want Steve to stay with me. I'll…I'll try to watch over him. I'll keep the button on me—" Her eyes flocked to Ronda's shocked gaze, feeling her stomach twist. "And my cellphone. At all times."

Ronda merely shook her head, hard. "I'm staying with you, then."

_"No."_ Beth exclaimed so loudly that she made her friend jump. "I…I have to be brave by myself, at some point, Ron. You can't keep protecting me from everything. I've never faced my fears like this before. So close to home."

"But now this is _inside_ your home," Ronda pointed out with a sigh.

"And the rest of them are inside _me_," Beth defended shortly.

She could feel Ronda's solid stare moistened—soon tears where there. Real, genuine, frustrated fear. Confused but completely honest in the sense _that she just wanted Beth to be okay. _Because she hadn't been for a long time. And now she was watching her best friend fall apart on the daily. Or worse, pretend it wasn't happening."I don't know what you're thinking right now, girl." Ronda said softly, her voice edging on waterworks. "But if that's what you want…" She huffed, defeated. "I'll do it. But only for you. And you're going to have to compromise with me here, Beth. Something. It can be simple. Just to let me know you're still breathing."

"I'll text you. Every hour."

Ronda's green eyes steeled into that promise. "Fine. You got that? _Every_ hour."

"Then we shall make our departure," Thor concluded, although his eyes held Natasha's in great unease.

Beth's blue eyes stared at the bedroom, feeling its weight holding her to the earth. The smooth surface of the square press-button airy in her palms. She felt the eyes of the two perfect strangers and her closest friend's on her back—unspoken, letter heavy wars colliding in the silence between them.

* * *

_"But don't be afraid. And remember…you hold the mightiest weapon of all._

_So don't forget:_

_You are the one that will open the door."_

- Kingdom Hearts

* * *

**AN: ** Nice, Agent Romanoff. Very nice. Although I can just picture her face throughout this scene where ever Thor decides to let more information slip. I can only imagine her giving him the evil eyes motioning for him to get a nice, tall glass of _shut the fuck up_. Seriously.

Maybe lemme know what ya'll think? Little tiny words? Yes? Yes..?

So what happened in this ridiculously long chapter? We got some Winter Solider mentioning! Did ya catch it? It's a quick one! Huh. Oh! It was also brought to my attention that I have a lot of pseudo-viewpoints going on in this crazy story. I'm terribly sorry if that's distracting to you lovely readers, and I promise that all viewpoints that are not Steve or Beth's do have…well, points. And character development, because reasons.

**Further notes and Translations:**

_'Бог'_ is God in Russian.

_'Schastlivogo Rozhdestva'_ is 'Merry Christmas' in Russian. I chose to write it phonically instead of textually for dialogue sake. Now you can go around saying Merry Christmas to your friends in Russian! READING RAINBOWWWWWW.

And yes. She's being facetious . I always thought it was interesting that Natasha's name is usually given, in Russia, to girls born around Christmas time. I can't tell if awkward or ironic.

BETH AND STEVE NEXT CHAPTER WITH NO MORE OF KAY'S CLIFFHANGER AND EXTRA CHARACTERNESS. YAYYYY~


	18. Warmth

**AN:** Thank you, thank you, thank you! How about some romance? Ah well, ya'll know me by now. It's not always as it seems. But things got tragically adorable, all I'm sayin'. Be sure to check out my authors note towards the end, if you'd be so kind. Ya'all make my existence as I slide around my house in happiness. Warm wishes to all~

* * *

_My life has been such a whirlwind since I saw you._

_I've been running round in circles in my mind._

_And it always seems that I'm following you, girl._

_'Cause you take me to the places that alone I'd never find._

* * *

Soft footfall dribbled along the carpet, and Steve's ears make sure he is aware of every movement. He forces himself to continue to breathe evenly. So far, it's the only thing he can do that doesn't hurt.

Then the sound stops. There is silence for the longest time, and Steve drifts backwards, unconsciousness calling to him.

* * *

The next time, it's a voice.

"…I just…why…happened…"

Steve's eyes crack open only for a heartbeat—trembling with the effort. He knows that voice. He just wishes he could understand what's being said. It's whispering to him, a hair's breadth away from where he should be returning towards. His lids give out. He's gone again.

* * *

A ringing chimes from along the floor. It sounds familiar…like someone is calling him from far away…

His eyes open.

It stopped.

_Beth._ Of course he knew her voice. His lips twitch into a frown. Why's she here?

Nothing makes sense. And he is too tired to attempt to figure it all out.

His eyes close.

* * *

There's a soft voice somewhere to Steve's left, but even with his eyes closed, he feels like he's continuously spinning in a slow circle. He flexes his right arm—but it's tethered tightly under the watery surface that's pulled over him. He can't move. He tests the rest of his body only to find his limbs, including his ankles, are strapped down. He tugs again discreetly as he can, a dull sense of being watched soaking over him, but it won't give. He's too weak.

The voice stopped.

_Beth._

Steve suddenly stilled. His eyes burn, stinging at the corners like he's bawled himself raw. His mouth is so dry he thinks that he's made of sand. Swallowing is a nightmare all its own.

"Steve?"

He can't face this yet. He wants three more chances to take Thor on again. He wants to keep pretending he'll wake up in Doctor Banner's lab. The gym's floor. Heaven. Anywhere but here.

"Steve…?" The voice, painfully quiet, sounds hurt for some reason. His eyes burn while his body freezes.

Quickly, tosses his head away, sprawled out along the bed—his eyes still closed, face forcibly relaxed, but he knows he's a terrible actor. He can't pretend to be asleep much longer. He's surprised he's fooled her for this long.

"Right," She decides to herself. It's the faintest of sounds, but he can hear the soft pattern of the pads of her fingertips running over something that's sounds hardy—almost as if it's giving her resistance. "Okay."

Something is placed carefully along the small nightstand next to him. He's surprised when he doesn't leap at the sound so close to his head.

She sighs, and it sounds relieved. "Just holding that thing was scary enough," She mutters. Fabric is shuffled. More skin rubbing together, her fingers interlinking themselves.

There is a steady thrum of her breathing—sometimes she doesn't inhale all the way, and it breaks the airy, soundless arrangement.

"If you can hear me, Steve, I just want you to know that—that I'm sorry."

His fingers twists the sheets self-consciously, the burn of shame leaks along his neck; The closest to warmth he's felt in what feels like days. The room pelts him in circles of nausea, sweat beaming down his skin.

_What have I done?_

* * *

His head doesn't smart so much when he opens his eyes to darkness. He glances towards the drawn curtains of a window—outside; New York City whirls and calls its endless, nonstop clip joint song. He can even see the moon caught between the empty search lights, calm and coarse; a burglar trying to sneak its away across the black sky with a bag full of silver pointed stars.

The door opens a little ways away, and he can't hide fast enough. For some reason, he braces himself. Maybe she'll scream at him, or maybe she'll throw him out. He figures she's bound to jump the gun at his binds. It's so wrong. Everything he's done. Everything he's ruined.

At first, she doesn't say anything. Her toes are light across the carpet, as if she's slinking across thinking that she's much too smooth to be heard, but Steve's hearing her all right. He's heard her barely conscious anyhow. He figures that's probably not a compliment to pay her. Then it hits him. He may be able to see the stuffed animal, bent books and her stack of little white socks in the corner near her closet, but she's practically blind.

The moonlight cradles the wooden outline of a chair—or more so, a make-shift stool, and she glides into it. From the corner of his eye, Steve tries to figure out what's happened to her. Her hair is wet, draping along her shoulders and neck like a soaked unfeathered boa. The water's pooled across her shoulders, fading unseen behind her back. When Steve gets to her waist, he yanks back at the ties. She's wearing some kind of long sleeved t-shirt, laced with tiny black furred terriers that are holding ribbons in their mouths, lacing in a pattern around her. The shirt's much too big for her that it drapes to her knees—but there's a problem.

She's pulled her knees up to her chest, and Steve pales, feeling what little blood that is in his body fight its way to his cheeks. It doesn't take much effort to fly his eyes away from seeing her—undergarments. He blinks hard, raw at the edges. He fights with his will to pretend, but it's breaking down fast. He has to start this process…whatever terrible process it may be.

He swallows, making the sound explicitly loud. Instantly, Beth jumps, her shirt slides down to cover her legs, a hand reaching out for something, but she's hesitant.

"Beth?" His voice rasps her name, clearing through the guilt of pretending for so long. He tries to focus just on her face, although the inky blackness around her swims if he tries to stare too hard.

"Steve—" Her voice is faint as it was before—he blinks, and he knows that she's been in this room more than once. It's her. It's always been her. "How…I…" her voice falters. She tries again. "I practiced what I was going to say to you before you woke up, but now I have no idea." She sighs, but it sounds rushed. "What can I do for you? Please tell me."

"M' cold, honestly," Steve's speech feels strangely slow as he decides what to label first. Cold ravages his skin. His body seems to be shaking right down to his bones. His lungs ache, his head pounds. He feels lightheaded, and is concerned why the room won't stop moving. Maybe she's talking too fast for him to keep up, but then he manages out a banged up: "How…how are you?"

More liquid drips into his eyes, and the delayed stinging is killing him.

From the chair, Beth blanches. Slowly, she places a single finger into the long sleeve of her shirt. She pulls down. In the shadows, Steve is the only one that can see her skin is tinged in something that shouldn't ever be on her body. His jaw hinged open in shock.

"I took a shower but it wouldn't come off," She says lowly, her voice heavy in defeat. "So I tried hot water…and then even hotter water…and it just started to burn. So I tried to my nails. But that didn't work either." Steve watches her light blue eyes dim as she crumbles up. "I was going to lie to you. Because in the dark, where we can't even see each other, I can pretend to be okay." She bites her lip, and it's not endearing as before. It's sad. So very sad and bitter on her pale lips, holding back all the pain he's caused her. Holding back from exploding again.

Steve hates himself for allowing it to happen. For a splintering moment, Beth's expression breaks—like she's going to start sobbing right there in the chair—the soldier's eyes widen, wishing the room would still long enough to really see if she is. But suddenly, her blue eyes open, narrowed and hard.

"But I'm _not_," she says with finality, her voice tight. "I can't get your blood off of me."

Steve swallows, willing himself to drown in the shades of pain tricking down his throat. He's unsteady when he tries to reach for her—but something knocks his wrists back—and he realizes with stinging clarity that he's pinned. Someone didn't want him to touch her ever again.

"I…I'm so sorry," Steve's voice is barely audible. "Beth…I can't even begin to…to tell you how..." He struggles to explain, his tongue slightly numb, and his heart pounding heavy inside of him, welling up, filling him with panic.

Her eyes are bright in the darkness, and she winds her arm sleeve back up to her own wrist. Steve blinks, and she's seems closer.

"Sorry?" Beth's lips quirk as she repeats him. "Steve…_I'm_ the one that's sorry."

"Wh-at?" That sends him for a dive, and his teeth chatter into the question. Steve wished he had the nerve to ask her to turn the heater on, but he can't knead the words from the guilt sitting on his tongue. She's done too much for him already. He should be gone by now. _She has your blood on her, for God's sake, Rogers.  
_  
"I heard you before…you…" His brows furrow tightly, making his temples knock, the sound concussive and loud inside of him. "…said you were sorry about something?" He forces himself to look her in the eye. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing."

Beth's eyes hold him hostage for a long time as she thinks. Slowly, she breathes out, fingers twisting together.

"I'm the reason you're here right now...in my _bedroom_ of all places. You should be somewhere…better than here. A hospital. Or with your friends." She paused. "You told me not to freak out. And I did. I was so stupid to not keep my cool. I didn't even think to go through with calling 9-1-1—I called Natasha—because—because—"

Steve's breathing stops as the ceiling seemed to come crashing down upon him, full force—pieces batter against one another in their challenge to evade his memory.

Her bedroom. Natasha's voice, biting as a whip. Strong hands holding him back. Binds. Screaming that somehow wasn't his own. Beth. Her apartment. Blackness. Cold. Beth's terrified scream. Nothing.

"You were just… there." She stared hard into the blackness in front of her. "Freezing and bleeding in my lap and I just couldn't—" She hiccups a hitch of a sob. "I _couldn't…"_

She shudders hard against the chair. The moist beads of her hair sticks to her face, casting a hollow smear along her cheek bone. Her voice is quiet again when she speaks.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't do what you asked me to."

Steve's own blond hair is soaked to the edges of his forehead, along his ears, inching like mad. He wrestles with what to do with himself. He wants to push his hair away. He wants to push her hair back behind her ear. He wants to throw himself out that window that is just so far away.

When he doesn't respond, Beth noticeably leans forward—a few droplets sprinkle across his face, waking him up better in their coolness. It strikes him along his lids—and when he reacts, it slides down, feeling like a tear all its own. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that same voice speaks to him:

_You don't have to give her everything, Rogers. Just give her something of yourself. _

He licks his dry lips, trying to not let his voice tremble.

"Beth…I…I called you…before…because I wanted to see you. You make me feel…something that I don't think I've felt in decades. But I…I messed it all up."

The silence nearly cleaves him in two, her response feels so long in waiting. She raises her fingers and swipes at her nose, sniffing.

"You didn't know you were bleeding." She disclosed.

He shifts against the pillow, turning as best as he can along his side to look at her. He wants to believe she'd know that, but it's all such a blur in his own head. The last honest to goodness thing he remembers is talking about a shower. He wishes, lying across his once-to-be-possible gal's sheets, that it's true. He doesn't know what to say. He feels so broken through it all. He nearly wishes that Thor and Nat didn't leave him here. The only satisfaction he gets is knowing that Beth isn't hurt. Wasn't hurt.

By him.

"I…wasn't myself." Steve sighs hard, closing his eyes tight. His hands rattle the ties. "I was in a kinda pain I don't quite understand."

"Natasha…said that you went to a walk in center to get some pain medication." She tilts her head curiously, her blue eyes cautious. "Did you know it'd…messed you up that badly? That's…one hell of a reaction."

He shakes his head halfway—a full head shake makes his world spin for seconds end to end. "Not for a long time. Y'know how I said I was sickly when I was a kid?—Scarlet Fever. Asthma. Heart murmur. I was a wreck. I'd use to think I was bullet proof if I just pushed back hard enough." He grimaces. "Should've realised the trouble I'd get myself into. Back when…" He stumbles. "When I was a kid, it only took about two beers to get me drunk."

Beth's eyebrows rise slightly. "You?"

Steve looks up at her helplessly. "Me."

She studies him for a moment, and slowly a small sad smile plays across her lips. "You're…something else, Steve Rogers."

He swallows scratchily, trying to keep at the subject. "You...ever struggle with anything like that? Childhood illness, I…mean?"

"I had asthma, but thankfully I grew out of it. It's not much fun for farm work."

Steve's eyes widen slightly at the news. He thought the Serum had fixed his entire mess of a body. But…asthma…had a cure?

"You can be cured of asthma?"

Her lips tighten, and Steve knows he's said something stupid. "Sometimes, yeah. And sometimes it stays with you, and you use an inhaler."

"Oh," Steve tries not to let his expression show how flabbergasted he feels.

The silence feels palpable between them.

"Now…I honestly struggle with…stress, I guess you could call it." Beth said slowly. Her eyes drift away from his, as if she's too shy to tell him so directly. "I…wasn't telling you the whole truth…you know…back on the boardwalk? I…I sort've…freak out sometimes for no good reason. Not just when, well, my first date in a few years decides to bleed on me."

His heart skips, tightens, strangles inside of him. He considers for a moment, his heart still thudding, and her breathing is loud in his ears. "Could you describe that…for me please?"

"Suddenly panicky. You can't breathe. You can't think. You feel…lost."

He thinks it's the swishing of blood rushing in his ears, but her words sound echoey to him. He takes a breath, but it's blocked—his hands twist against their holds. _Panic. Breathe. Lost._ _She…she feels it too?_ Finally, he swallows enough of a cough to ask her, tangled inside of his thoughts.

"Is it…like…do you ever…walk into a room and you find yourself suddenly…overwhelmed. It's…too empty. Or…there's something wrong with it still, and you drive yourself up the wall because you just can't put your finger on why…and then you wake up late at night and you realise that it's you that shouldn't be there?"

Beth's breathing seemed to disappear.

"I…I can't say I've felt exactly that. But..I'll get a thought stuck in my head…like, I'll see a costumer reading the New York Times and the headline will be about the Attack and I just…can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop shaking the mug of coffee when I pour and eventually if someone looks as me funny I'll just burst into tears."

Steve's light blue eyes motion towards Beth anxiously. "Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe."

"When?"

His mouth opens, muscles seizing deep down, clawing at his lungs. "Like now." He added breathlessly.

Beth steels herself in her chair. _"Now?"_

"It's sort've like my asthma attacks I'd have when I was a kid, but," He shuddered a breath, thoughts rushing for logic. He steals from what he's learned in their passing time together. "I really thought I grew outta that kinda thing."

Steve presses himself against the cover sheet of the mattress, every hiss of the springs inside of it protesting his shaking. The sleek black ties coil along his flesh, eating angry red marks. Beth's eyes seemed to reach for something on the nightstand, but suddenly her arms are pulling at the sheets. "The last thing you need is something on you if you can't breathe."

"Wait," Steve tries not to sound stern, but their touching and his heart is shuddering against his battered ribs. "Ya—you can't—don't."

Beth's fingers are loose over the sheets. "I…I just want to help. Please."

"I know, but—I…" He twists slightly, lungs practically surging in him. "Look," he sputters.

The sheet slips down a ways from his shoulder, but Beth continues to stare. Steve swallowed hard. Her eyes aren't strong enough to see it. "If you can…touch my arm, run it down to my wrist."

The tips of her fingers seemed to glow a soft red in the silver shadows along the walls, and she gasps when they tug over multiple ropes, lean and tight. She's nearly speechless when her eyes leer back to Steve's. "You're…tied down? Why?"

Steve tries to think fast, but the room is spinning from his struggles for air. "Seize. In case I started—"

"No!" Beth interjects, and quickly she's peeling the binds off of his wrists, his ankles. "That's terrible, if you were to seize, you'd need the freedom to move!"

By the time he tries to reason, she has him free. He lurches up, and his side sinks icy fangs into the wound—it twists up, shaking his brain inside of his skull—he hopes he's not screaming. But he can't breathe. Something shifts—almost like he's falling, but someone's supporting him up.

Beth.

She's perched at the foot of the bed, both arms reaching out. She has him by the shoulders, fingers digging in tightly. Steve tries not to gasp, willing himself to stay calm. It's slightly working, if only because he doesn't have to focus his strength on staying up right. Her strength can't last long, and he feels himself inch forward, towards her face. Her arms shake slightly, and he manages to lean forward on his own, arms bracing himself from falling over completely. His breathing is hard, rattling her frame. Black dots littered his vision, and his eyes squeeze tightly, burning in his sockets. He wonders if he even has eyes left. Maybe they're gaping holes now, robbing from him for being such a selfish idiot.

He doesn't think of Peggy. He won't think of Peggy.

He coughs hard, almost like he's bringing up ice. One of Beth's hands finds his own in the darkness, warm and soft.

Beth tried to keep herself active. Talking was better than not. "Better, now that you can move?"

"I…I'll let you know in a…" He can't even finish his sentence, inhaling hurts too much.

Minutes tick by, and Steve's breathing feels more controlled for the moment. He ducks upward to glance at Beth, but her voice catches his ears first.

"This feels…familiar."

Steve is suddenly completely lost at what he sees.

Beth's blush on the apples of her cheeks are like welcoming beacons in the shadowy waves of the room. A faint look of a reprieve touches her eyes—but then it, too, fades away. "Oh. That makes sense—you wouldn't…you wouldn't remember."

Steve looked at her curiously, his voice still rusty. "What wouldn't I remember?"

"You, well, uh, kissed me. A little like this."

Steve pales, and his whole body pushes away, eyes vulnerable. _Kissed..?_

"I blacked out when I kissed you?"

"No, no, Ronda tased you. She…she thought you were hurting me when you went to kiss me."

Steve's jaw sets itself sorely over the word 'tased'. He's not too terribly sure what that means, but it doesn't sound charming.

"I was…tased?" he tried the funny word out and it makes his cold face twitch over the s's 'z' sound.

"Electrocuted. Yeah."

He winced. He'd be the first to admit he was getting real sick of electricity. Then a darker thought hit him.

"Beth," this time his voice does shake. "Did…I hurt you?"

Beth squeezed his hand just once, and that's all he needs to know. Yes. Yes he did.

_What have I done?_

He keeps talking because if he doesn't use his mouth for something he'll just start hyperventilating. Again.

"I never meant to hurt you," He blurted out numbly, outraged at his own action. "I'm so sorry. And to just…I'm such a lousy kisser anyhow, but I…I…don't know what I was thinking. I just…"

_Needed you_, he finishes inside of his head.

Beth lapsed into quiet, tugging at the collar of her t-shirt. Watching her withdrawal into herself is killing him.

"Steve…why did you do it? Why call _me?"_ Her voice seems to chime like chips of glass tapped together, fragile and chaotic. Like one of the angel's from Grand Central Station, where they met.

He looks up at her, right in the eyes, clear as day, and finally says it.

"I was cold. I always feel…cold." A pause. A break. His voice feels so weak. "I think something's wrong with me."

A hand slides from his shoulder to cup itself over his forehead, drenched in sweat. "No, you're still burning up. It must be the chills."

Steve's voice breaks a bit when he chuckles dryly. She doesn't get it. "I wish that were true."

He wants her hand to stay just like that—the warmth takes over the pounding in his head, wiping his thoughts blank. The bed sways slightly when she moves away from him, and he has to really focus to just continue sitting up.

"I'll be right back. Got just the thing."

He stared after her, his heart rate exhausting him as he tries to use it to measure how long it's been. He wants to call out for her, somehow. He wants to scream, as well. He also wants to break the bedside table, but he doesn't do that, either. She's back in the room in record time, a tiny bounce to her step that makes the carpet beneath her look dizzying. Between her hands is something fuzzy and grey.

"Electric blanket?" Beth offers, her voice sounding more upbeat at the idea.

_Electric blanket?_ Steve tries not to sound too alarmed when he responds back to her.

"Would it be rude of me to say I don't care for that?"

Beth rocks on her bare feet for a moment, considering. "You…don't have to be so polite, you know. You can tell me what you want, Steve."

_You can tell me what you want_, her voice trills in the back of his mind. No one's really asked him that. No one's really considered that for him. He looks at her for half a second and cracks a grin. Then he's chuckling. Soon Steve's laughing but his side rips with every row, destroying him, an open wound that desperately pours out bitterness.

And he can't stop.

The room twists roughly, slamming him back against the pillows, knocking the wind out of him. He can't recover it back—he forces himself to breathe in, but it's not working. The mattress under him feels watery—sinking. He writhes, trying to find someplace to grab before it swallows him. His vision pulses dark at the edges—he can't see Beth's face anymore. She's gone in the darkness. Stale moonlight tinted the crisp, watery sheet layers before him like waves on the ocean. Soon there's a noise in the air that doesn't sound like laughter anymore. It's weaker. Broken into sharp pieces. He's crying. His tears feel like they're bleeding down his face, traced in paths of mourning from everyone he's lost. Everyone he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to. They're too hot, unnatural across his skin, bubbling—his shudders, cold over-taking his body, and he cries out when splashes of blood start to fall from his mouth. He's bit his tongue to try and stop, but he can't.

The darkness embodies him, sending shivers down his spine, and he freezes. He can taste something metallic. Every inch of his body hurts—he twists again, but nothing is giving way. Why can't he just drown already? Why can't it be easy? It was so easy for everyone _else_ to just let time take them. He's had bombs try to blow him up. Missiles and bullets rip through his muscles, but water will win. He wants it to win. His head throbs like an iron spike is stabbed through him. He's sobbing, large fingers gripping at his sweaty hair, threatening to rip it off. He'd rip himself apart if he meant this would end. He just wants to breathe, or to stop breathing. There's no more in between. He won't linger this time.

He's wants to die. He'll say it now. He just wants to die and be cold and let it wash over him.

Someone's talking to him, but he can't make out their words. They're whispering, close, and he can almost taste their breath mixed with his own. When he shoves them away, they're back again. Pressure is placed on the side of his face. An arm wraps around the back of his neck. He's pulled into something solid. Solid against the water he's drowning in. His arms tighten around her back. Warmth. He doesn't let go.

* * *

She fights him for what feels like hours—but it's minutes of Steve breaking down. She watches it happen with a sense of great fear—it's so sudden, she has no time to prepare. He curled around himself, one arm bracing his side, one his head, shuddering against something that isn't there. His eyes beam red, water streaking down his cheeks in shame. She forces herself to be brave. She wants to be brave. It's disturbing to see, but yet she knows exactly what it's like. Something's spinning out of control. Sparks wheeling off the end of a cut diamond. A kind of raw material that wasn't meant for breaking, but somehow it is.

She grabbed Steve, pulling tight against him. The soldier's arms locked around her like a vice, squeezing with a force that's pushing her shoulder blades out of their sockets. His face wearily buried itself into her shoulder. She can feel his tears weeping through the outline of her shirt, leaking down her arms until it's gliding along where his blood had dried. A hand struggles to touch the back of his neck—the only supportive gesture she can manage as he shudders. The tips of her fingers brush through his hair. He's hurting her, it's true, but she braces herself and attempts to hug him just as tightly.

Slowly, she glides her fingers back through his hair, down the broad definition of his shoulders, down his back—up again. She can feel every time he attempts to gain control. His fingers pressed in hard against her shirt, but she just focuses on holding him. He trembles against her, but it doesn't seem as harsh. She steals the chance to angle her mouth towards his own ear, and she tries to think of anything to say that could help. She thinks about what Ronda told her. About things being okay. But they're not. This is not okay. It's messed up in so many ways, but it's happening, and Beth decides to accept that.

Carefully, she presses her lips against his ear, her fingers shifting through his hair soothingly.

"I'm here," she whispers. This brings a rise out of him. Like he's trying to speak, but it's swallowed by a softer sound. Almost a whimper. She hugs harder. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She keeps repeating this for God doesn't even know how long. She doesn't care. All she knows is that she refuses to say it's okay. She's not going to lie anymore. But there's one thing that is true. "I'm here, Steve. Okay?" She cups the back of his neck, adjusting her arm back so she can touch his cheek. "Can you feel me?"

He seems lost for a moment, forehead resting against her shoulder as he's locked around her, but he leans against her fingers, his eyes closed. Soon his sobbing turns into pitches of breathing. Slowly his grip around her is returning to that of a normal tight hold. She leans into his neck, pressing her face into his chest. He's still burning up, but his grip is loosening still. She uses the advantage to bring him down across the bed. She tries to fix his IV tube, kicking the rest of his terrible binds off the bed.

She's feels lucky that she's managed to lay him on the side that isn't a gaping wound. His arms still fight to wrap themselves around her back—pulling her into him like she weighs nothing. She lets him, scooting closer so that he doesn't have to strain so hard. His face is flushed from crying, but his eyes open wearily at her. Carefully she uses the soft corner of a sheet to pad at his face, and is nervous when he doesn't even react. He just continues to stare at her. Like he did in the park. She reaches back to push through his hair, and his eyes flutter. He fights to keep looking at her, blue eyes desperate, as if he won't wake back up.

"If this is what you want, Steve," she whispers softly, close to his lips. "I'll stay."

She hugs herself to him, as if to prove this point, and he reacts with hesitation, before finally nuzzling against her neck. It isn't proper in the moment, but his stubble tickles her, and she stifles a small giggle. He stops, alarmed for a second, and she looks back up at him.

She touches his face again. "I'm sorry—that just tickled."

He sighs at this, but it sounds content for some reason. He lowers his head down, resting against the soft fabric along her neck once more. She snuggles closer, one hand along his neck, keeping track of his heartbeat. The other under him, along his back. He crashes quickly, his heart rate dropping startlingly fast before it evens out. His breath is warm against her neck, and eventually it slows into a deeper rhythm. Beth presses herself against him. It's not perfect but the darkness in her room feels a tiny bit brighter.

* * *

She only slightly moves once to send Ronda the texts she promised, but it's hard. Steve's grip, even while completely relaxed, is heavy along her side—when she tries to carefully wiggle free, he makes a soft sound of protest, and she instantly stops, her heart drumming. He's breaking her heart.

haphazardly, she manages to grab Steve's phone from the floor. She flips through a missed call from an unknown number and types in Ronda's, hoping that Steve won't mind her disturbance. It's important. Not necessarily a matter of life or death, but Beth worries that it could be. Ronda might just kill Beth herself out of anxiety.

_Texting from Steve's phone, don't worry, he's asleep, things are…uh…turning out okay. I think. I don't even know where to begin with what happened today, Ronda. But tonight…things seem…different. It's…really messed up, yeah, but, so are we. I'll talk to you later today. 4:53 am.  
_  
She drops his phone back onto the carpet, and curls back into Steve's lax embrace. She fixes the sheets over him, remembering how he said he was cold—but from the way he's wrapped around her, that doesn't seem to be a problem for tonight. Then she thinks of one final piece of reprise. She carefully kisses him on the neck—too nervous to even try for his lips. She thinks for a moment that he might be waking up, but he merely mumbles against her shoulder—stirring the fabric there with every breath he takes.

At first, it tickles, but soon it's a center of calm for her to focus on. She doesn't think about the shadows, or the traffic rushing by, or the red scrub marks on her skin.

It's warm.

And she likes it.

* * *

And even as I wander I'm keeping you in sight,

You're a candle in the window on a cold dark winters night,

And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might."

- R.E.O. Speed Wagon

* * *

**By the by,** I'm looking for someone who would be interested in creating a cover for "No Day But Today"? Or, honestly, any of my other stories. If you'd let me know, I'll, of course, credit you with everything.

**AN:** oh Man oh MAN ya'all should _see _me sliding around on the wooden floors in my skivves, crooning out some R.E.O. Speed Wagon. It's not for the faint of heart.

and awhh yeah, all that accurate historical references/medical. The only thing I let slide was electric blankets. They were around back then, but meh, Steve missed that fuzzy boat.

So, seriously, EVERYONE GIVE ME A HIGH FIVE. Could this fic get over 100 reviews? I'm going flip out if it does. Well, I flip out over any reviews, but still. So, hooray. Finally some um, well, kinda…messed up romantics in this fic, huuuuh? So don't go anywhere yet! Looks like Steve's gonna have one interesting morning. And what do the rest of the Avengers think of this? Someone's not going to be happy. Or Ronda? And…didn't Beth say she was working tomorrow? Er. Today? Awkward. How does one explain to their boss that they're too busy cuddling an emotionally distressed super hero?

Special thank you to EVERYONE that's reviewed/followed/favourited! I am SO sorry for thank you delays and message delays. I'm writing this RIGHT in the middle of finals. I know you all know that feel when I say I'm feeling that feel, ya feel? Thank youuu. Ahhhh. **8D** Thank you SO much to Goldenpuon for saving my butt on fixes, and Hoperise!


	19. Bruce's Smoke Break

**AN:** Annnnndd we're over 100 reviews! Nearly 110 now! Thank you. SO much. TO EVERYONE. I shall get ALL the thank you notes and message replies as soon as I can. Perhaps I can explain more below to my lateness.

Thanks for being patient guys. I'm kind've in the middle of moving for the first time in my entire life. It's always a little awkward to have to live in a house, whilst keeping it perfect and pretending not to live in it at all. Random strangers keep poppin' into my room while I'm trying to write, and I always have to freeze, smile, and do that awkward 'welcome to my room' wave—

Then the conversation goes as followed: "Yes, that is an original drawing of Edward Scissorhands on the wall", "Yes, I did sow the one-eyed unicorn with my grandmother when I was seven", "Yes, that poem hanging by my bed does talk about rape and transfemaletomale situations", "What am I writing? Uhm—"*Quickly snaps her laptop closed* "Nothing weird like Tony Stark talking to Bruce Banner about drugs. Nope. I'm a good girl, sir. I'm a good girl."

God, it's like folks expect me to be normal or something. Please go away so I can live in a fictional world now.

* * *

"Tell me that you know.  
Another way to get it done.  
It's not me, or how I would be,  
But it's a different situation.  
A different situation.  
You lay awake in the night  
Just staring at the ceiling above.  
Pulling pieces of it out  
Is such a waste of time."

* * *

When his fingers lit the cigarette, the world seemed a little bit brighter. It twisted itself in the dim starchy air, guiding out of his mouth. He hadn't smoked in years. The habit wasn't particularly settling when it came to just about anything, though. It made his heart speed up; his thoughts race faster, colliding like burned-out pistons inside his skull. It wasn't welcomed in most restaurants, hotels—even walking down the street earned you an uncomfortable look. In all honestly though, sometimes he wanted just that. That scornful, uncomfortable look that a complete stranger would throw him; he wanted to drawl it over him like a mask. Because for a spit second—he felt halfway decent, and someone else felt uncomfortable over what he what in doing, and not who he was. And if that wasn't enough. If he just wanted to, he could just breathe in a drag and spray fire back out across the whole city. New York would burn in shame. Harlem would rumble and all of its citizens would feel what he has to hold in every day.

It could be beautiful. At some point, fire always turns beautiful.

"Can I bum one off of you, Big Guy?"

Bruce's dark eyes stabbed through the darkness of the balcony, one hand tight over the rail as he shuddered forward in surprise. A sleek silver outline of Tony's vest hovered close by. Bruce's eyes rolled over his friend for a moment, considering. He thumped the end of his cigarette, placed it back between his lips. The orange ashes leapt outwards over the railing, suicidal on the wind.

"You smoke?"

Tony feinted a touch of wounded pride. "Ouch, Banner. All this time of us making BFF bracelets and I thought you'd know better than to think I wouldn't. Now you've got me all worried that you think I'm supposed to knock those out of your hands and yell about your condition." Bruce's expression lightened from its tight hold, and Tony considered that a win.

"I'm not, by the way." The billionaire added, nearly standing side by side to the doctor. "And even if that was some kind of a problem, I'd still just _really_ want a smoke."

Bruce's lips twitched into a bitter smile. "Smoking won't trigger anything but a higher heart rate. Cancer. Conditions that are actually supposed to make me worry about my future."

"Mm, terrible, really." Tony agreed distractedly. He stretched out the black long sleeve of his sweater, opening it from around a small silver buttoned section along his forearm to reveal a cold, polished circle. A blaster, tight around his wrist. Usually Bruce tried to avoid staring at the tiny lethal pieces that Tony was establishing more and more to be just a normal part of his body. He'd seen him stab the suit's bio-command chips—well, now he supposes they're more like rejected foreign objects forced under his skin; hard, immovable pathogens in his system. Bruce's dark brown eyes watched silently whenever Tony winced as he'd inject himself, watching his lips press together so tightly they'd turn white in anguish.

This time however, Tony's lips were split into an expression that he was struggling to hold back when he noticed Bruce's eyes regarding him with ill ease.

"I didn't know you smoked, Bruce. Strike one down for an underhanded surprise on your end. I'm impressed."

Bruce listlessly watched the end of his calm fall apart, dripping down the streets below with a dizzying drop. "Don't be. I shouldn't be up here doing this."

Tony's mouth quirked in sudden interest, dark eyes glancing at the cigarette in his friend's hand. "You make it sound like you're not smoking a plain old cancer stick."

The physicist made a sound in his throat that Tony had begun to regard as a Bruce Banner sort of a chuckle. "Oh—you're hilarious, Tony. No. It's nothing like that."

Tony glance around them—standing on top of Stark Tower, faces sheered by the harsh bite of the wind digging into their throats. Tony just happened by the opened balcony doors, chatting to Jarvis about the latest space modulator when he caught the heavy, broad-shouldered shadow that could be no one else but the doctor himself. He stood off for a while, wondering if he should bring out jackets for them both. But one look at how sloppily Bruce was dressed, leaning over the edge of a building, put a strange hard lump in Tony's throat.

"So, what, you don't ever fall on a left handed cigarette?" Tony's brows rose up playfully.

Bruce's mouth turned up at a single corner, and when his nostrils flared, more orange sparks flew out. Tony may have just earned himself a laugh. Although, usually it only was Tony that Bruce found he could share such a shocking reaction with.

A steady hand reached up, pressing at his eye, rubbing there. "I've probably done more drugs than you have, if you want to start this up again, but I've gotten so tired of all of that." Bruce said, trying not to mumble around the cigarette.

"Never makes a difference?" Tony reached out, careful to take the cigarette by making sure their fingers touched. He got pissed whenever Bruce tried to play the no-contact game. It was aversive, and not helping towards establishing the fact that Bruce could touch someone, and the world wouldn't God damn end. "That's a shame."

"Apparently. I did anything to try and cure myself. I was desperate. But all it ever did was…" His voice faded off as his hair fell into his eyes at the shake of his head.

Bruce sighed, pushing his dark hair out of his face. It'd been forever and a year since he'd managed a haircut. His glasses were getting a bit harder to see out of as well, Manhattan's pulsing skyscraper lights looking too blurring—small fragile bubbles that divide him from the real world though the glass. Yet another appointment to make. He took a longer drag, slightly numbing to his tongue. Maybe, if he ever had the nerve, he could ask Pepper to just take a pair of scissors to his hair. Hell, maybe he'd just do it blind. He could even just try it right here in the dark. He'd cut himself bald if he thought for a second it'd make him look any less terrifying to his own roommates. He'd cut himself to piece if he thought it'd make a hopeful difference in what he's done.

"Shit," Tony muttered a curse, snapping Bruce away from his thoughts. He narrowly saw ghostly nimble fingers poking at the deep greenish bruise that was forming around his latest attempt to get the bio-chips to stay inside of him without revolt. Bruce tried to make his own medical glance-over discreet, but Tony was too quick for that. He snugged the warm cloth back down, manipulating the blaster to cunningly light the end of his own cigarette.

For all of Tony's roguish charm and brilliant ingenuity, Bruce wondered if Tony even thought about how injecting bio-electrical charges and chemicals under his arms might rationally fare. He may be Tony Stark, but that doesn't make him any less human.

Again, Bruce shifted an arm, pressing his face into the light grey of his sweatshirt, haphazardly pulled over the long-sleeved sleep ware he'd struggled on in his own exhaustion. He never did manage to get back to sleep since Steve's escape.

Another pointed drag that he may have put too much force behind. He coughed roughly, knocking his jaw against the cushion of his arm. He came out here to get away from the buzzing noise inside of his skin, but really, who was he kidding?

He felt a hand heartily pound his back, and he nearly leaped back at the contact.

Tony's coils of black knots looked greasy, masking the black rings of his puzzling eyes turning deeply, changing to analyzing Bruce. The wires of his hair zigzagged across his cheekbones. He wondered if that was because Tony forgot to shower (like he did eat, sleep, or pay the electric bill) or if he'd just had his own head stuck in the bowels of a ripped open metal casket of yet another prototype suit. Tony was careful to not let a soul see just how many suits he'd made. Ones that were as big as tanks, ones that could survive the deepest depths of the ocean. But Bruce was out _outliner_, as Tony put it. But Bruce didn't just see the suits. What Bruce really saw made him feel ill inside.

"Y'alright?" Tony's light tone actually felt full of concern. Bruce forced himself to respond as he should, despite what he wanted to say.

_About as much as you are, Tony._

"Yeah," Bruce's voice wheezed out. "It's been a while. I've lost my touch."

"So you _don't_ actually smoke?"

"About as much as I drink," the scientist confided with a hint of remorse, wishing that he could take back his words. It'd been a long time since he and Tony got into a spat over drinking. An event that he really didn't want to go through again.

"Ah, that again," Tony acknowledged without a sign of offense. "It's because you're a hilarious lightweight." A subtle eye blink in the New York City night that could've been a wink, and Bruce tried not to smirk gratefully.

"You know my secret, Tony." Bruce agreed solemnly.

"Doesn't everybody?"

This time Tony's drag lit up the darkness—smooth small rings echoing from his lips, floating up and into the night, racing each other for the haunting stormy clouds above. The sky was still raining down crystal snowflakes across their shoulders, in their dark hair, silent and cold.

Bruce gave a shrug, took a puff for a subject change. "Show off."

Tony smiled, and for some reason it felt straining around the sides of his mouth, as if he hadn't done it in a while. "You mad, bro?"

The misty smoke curled from Bruce's nostrils. "Actually. I am."

Bruce waited for another joke, but Tony just waited. He just listened—like when they'd talk in the lab together, mindlessly passing holograms back and forth. Bruce wished he could tell Tony how much he appreciated that.

"About what?"

"Thor."

Tony shook his head hard, blinking, taking a deep drag. "Thor?"

"Tony, don't you think it's a little strange how badly Thor hurt Steve?"

Tony held the smoke in, edging out from the spaces of his teeth for a buzz.

"Sure. But, the guy isn't exactly a dainty sunflower. He's a lot of pound first, ask questions later, if you haven't noticed. He did bring his ice trolling brother to Earth, and didn't apologize much for it. But that doesn't mean he doesn't, you know, feel bad."

Bruce sighed, a hand rubbing at his lower jaw. "I think we need to talk to everyone about what happened this morning."

Tony puffed, swallowing smoke, letting it burn all the way down. "Sure—sounds great. As soon as Captain Icicle stops being insane, that'll be fine."

Bruce's sad brown eyes swung to Tony's, still and aggravated at his answer. "What made you think your gym could handle Thor's power? Do you think it amplified the hammer, somehow?"

Tony thought hard for a moment, chewing at the end of his stick. "Hm. Well, I can't say I made perfect preparations, but it should hold even Thor's blasts." He breathed out, grey swirls lapping at the chill in the air. "I think that Thor may have just gotten a little too into the challenges. I mean, his breathes, eats, and sleeps pride. Maybe he just didn't think of the consequences."

"Consequences, sure." Tony took notice of Bruce's shaking fingers holding onto the bar.

"Hey," Tony said pressingly, his black eyes tight in concentration. "What gives? Steve—he's gonna be fine. Natasha and Thor are bringing him back right now. You don't have to beat yourself up so badly over—"

"I told him this was a bad idea," Bruce snapped suddenly, his voice low.

Tony's jaw cracked as he stopped mid-phrase. "What was a bad idea?"

Bruce paled, his shoulders tight. He took another lingering drag to kill time. "You know about what." Brown eyes flickered to the orange light in Tony's hand. "You found it."

The piece of paper Tony had shoved into his jeans pocket felt heavy. "The girl that Rogers has the hots for? Wait—you told him it was a bad idea to—" Tony felt a grin crack across his face, completely convinced. "Finally! SOMEONE who agrees with me!"

Bruce sighed out through his nose, hard, fingers drumming over the rail nervously.

"I talked about her last night with Steve—and I tried to tell him but, well. I just…couldn't." Bruce's voice fell away hoarsely. "I just kept thinking about…"

He twisted the cigarette again, trying to keep his mouth dry, his expression solid. The silence felt loud in his ears.

"Betty," Tony finished for him, his voice distinctly soft. "Yeah. I can see why you'd go there."

Instantly, Banner looked alert. "You don't think…Steve hurt her, do you?"

Tony set his teeth, staring out into the cooling night sky. He couldn't think of a response fast enough. "I…I suppose we'll find out soon enough. But I can't imagine it ever coming to that. I'm pretty sure Rogers wouldn't hurt a mosquito if it said 'please' and 'thank you' as it buzzed around."

Bruce's expression flew away like ashes on the chilling wind, swiping at their throats, replaced with crushing internal guilt, leaking its way across his face. "This is my fault. I never should have given him Fury's drug. I never should have let him out of my sight."

Tony settled in, propping up his arm over the snow covered railing, wetting his elbow. "Who knew Rogers could be so much trouble. You don't think that's the first time Steve's been… out of it, do you? Like, did they have drugs back then? Real shit, I mean."

Bruce grumbled again—a sound that seemed more depressed than amused.

Tony waved his hand, trying to ease up the tension. "Man, you and Steve. Missing out on life. Drugs, alcohol, sex. Too bad Steve can't stand rock and roll. You think he'd like dubstep?"

Bruce stared at him. Tony gave up his charade with a flourish of his cigarette.

"Bruce, buddy. You just…you _can't."_ Tony explained sharply, as if the generalized assumption made sense to just them. "You just can't blame yourself. Thor got carried away; I didn't pay enough attention to whatever stunt Clint wanted to pull. Hell, I've been the one shoving Rogers around lately." Tony paused briefly, considering. "But more or less, all you really did to him was get him crocked, and then he went out and got himself a girlfriend. Isn't that the most absurd thing you've ever heard?"

Bruce turned back to look at Tony. "You're really admitting to this being your fault?"

"What?" Tony sputtered broken smoke rings into the air. "_Hell_ to the no. No. No, what _I'm_ saying is that I still don't like this. Whatever…this is with Steve and this chick. It's already causing enough drama. And you don't like it either, which means that I'm not entirely narcissistic in thinking that I'm right all the time. Because I am. Steve got himself in this. We just gotta deal with it, sadly."

Bruce rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as he listened, wishing he could tell Tony that it wasn't so simple.

"You two are more alike than you think," Bruce allowed gently.

A growl echoed from Tony's direction. "Don't say that." He pressed a hand to his temple. "God, don't say that ever again. That's bullshit." Tony nicked the edge of his stick over the rail, watching it float away. "Ah—fuck. It's too late. I'm thinking about it now."

"And?"

"I hate you. Now I'm thinking about dad." He blew out more smoke. "And here I thought I was stopping you from taking the big jump—how do you always manage to turn it around on me with your psychobabble?"

Bruce's chest rose and fell in halfhearted laughter. "I'm not that kind of doctor."

"And I'm not some bleeding heart!" Tony defended sharply. "I get it, I do. Steve's been through hell, but I don't like it with this random woman—Hell, we still need to talk to him about his PTSD. Ya think this girl has any freaking clue what she's in for?"

Bruce's dark hair rustled in the chilly air, light silver at its edges. _Like we need to talk to you about yours_, "We can't always know."

"Yeah." Tony stabbed the end of his smoke into the rail. "Well I do. I don't deal with things like that."

"You already dug up quite a bit about her, Tony. You're still worried she's trouble?"

Tony set his eyes hard to Banner's. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Bruce shook his head despondently. "I…well, I can't throw stones at glass relationships. But I don't like it either."

"And that's all I need to hear. You're on my side. It'll work out for the best."

_Work out for the best_, Tony's voice sounded full of conviction, but inside of Bruce, they fell to the bottom of his stomach and shattered, forcing a shiver.

Tony rubbed his own arm, trying to pump warmth through his body. Bruce tried to not dance around the green leering out from the small kitted holes in Tony's sweater.

"That hurt?" Bruce asked, words turning frosty on the gust that rattled the windows so very high up.

"Time to time," Tony remarked glancingly, his expression guarded. "It's fine."

"Tony," Bruce tried to push his opinion in carefully.

"Don't." Tony closed his eyes childishly, trying to imagine the pain in his arm floating away. He opened them back up—nothing had changed. "_Dammit._ This is the fifth time."

"Tony, about your, um, arm." Bruce continued, used to Tony's frail attempts to not "play doctor", as he sarcastically put it, whenever Bruce was forced to pull out sharp scalpels and other sharp medical objects to scapegoat Tony from a real hospital visit. The physicist tried to make it seem like he was just pondering Tony's frequent attempts to be attached to his Iron Man suit at all costs. "I think I may need to look at that. I know you don't like hearing this, but it looks infected."

A defeated, captured shadow fell across Tony's face. He studied his arm, a thumb padding at the green aching bruise, as if seeing for the first time that his experiment wasn't working. "I'm gonna get this right one day."

Bruce's mouth set itself grimly. "I know you will."

* * *

_"Keep on fighting to remember_  
_That nothing is lost in the end._  
_When you burn,_  
_ burn,_  
_ burn,_  
_your life down." -_

"Burn Your Life Down", Tegan and Sara

* * *

**AN: **Thank you so very much again! Perhaps let me know what you think? If anyone is interested in that fight Bruce mentions briefly between him and Tony, it's in Chapter 3 of "_The Strings That Bind Us_", located on my profile page.

By the by, if anyone is interested, the poem I mentioned in my above author's note is called "Trellis" by Andrea Gibson. It. Is. Powerful. Be warned. Also, you should look up her preforming it slam-poetry style on YouTube. Just type her name and its title on in. Don't be shy.

You won't regret it.

**p.s.** I don't, won't, and never will do any sort of drug. I have nothing against it, no worries, but it just isn't my cup of tea.


	20. The Early Morning After

**AN:** Dear God, you all are glorious wonderful folks that make my world turn 'round. Seriously. Thank you SO very much for all the reviews and support and follow and favourites. I just can't. Please enjoy.

* * *

"She says I smell like  
safety and home.  
I named both of her eyes,  
Forever and Please Don't Go.  
I could be a morning sunrise,  
all the time,  
all the time,  
Yeah,  
This could be good.  
This could be good."

* * *

A dull pain trills along his stomach, pricking at his side and Steve shifts, his consciousness bombarded with awareness. His eyes drift upward, dimly aware of a ceiling fan turning cool air from above. Colours are layering down the room that's already draped in clothes of purple bruises, battered hues of blue that stretch faintly across the walls—a window forgotten to be closed all the way allows the last squall of city traffic to rush until morning.

The first thing he notices is that he's warm. He has woken up with feeling in his legs, his fingertips, for the first time in months.

The second thing is that he is not alone.

His heart skips hard.

She stayed.

His arm is locked around her, cupping under her side. He can practically hold the curve of her entire hipbone in his hand.

Then he remembers that she's not wearing pyjama bottoms, and his face burns in distress.

He carefully attempts to roll his arm out from under her, having to lean in towards her sleeping face—the tangles of her blonde hair are splayed across the pillow next to him, darken softly by the shadows hanging around. From the corner of his eye, he glances again towards the window. Faint stars are still twinkling back at him. It's not even morning.

He forces himself not to wonder how long it'd been. He has bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that he's so inappropriately snuggled next to Beth. Like where his phone is so that he can call Natasha and possibly yell half-way to New Jersey about how terrible he's made this whole thing.

A small sound escapes Steve's lips as he moves, and Beth opens her eyes sleepily in response. He freezes, caught red-handed. _Well, not exactly_, Steve corrects halfheartedly. _She's red-handed with my blood.  
_  
"Hey," he breathes quietly, his heart stuttering its pulse.

"Steve," Beth's lips glow faintly in the moonlight as she speaks, sometimes dripping a white or grey from the shadow of snowfall crisping through the window. "Wha…" She blinks, a hand sloppily moving hair out of her eyes.

"I, uh, was gonna try and find your bathroom," Steve murmurs, completely embarrassed between how much he wants to tell her she looks adorable when she first wakes up, and how much shame he feels when his sharp eyes can still make out all the dried red on her body.

"Oh," there's a touch of haphazard relief in the sound. He can hear the creak of her elbow joint when she points unsteadily towards the north wall of her bedroom. There's a distinct pause before she tells him what exactly she's directing him towards. "There. It's…it's there."

"Thanks."

He swings his legs over, testing his weight on the carpet, but his side still feels slightly numb—every step isn't agony. He only hopes that this means he's healing as fast as he usually does. He tries to not practically race for the door.

_"Wait!"_ Beth calls frantically and Steve nearly jumps out of his skin.

"What—what's wrong?" His eyes take in the room, preparing for danger.

"You can walk okay?" She blinks, startled. "I was going to help you walk but…it looks like you're good in….that department….And…you're…still hooked up to the bag. Um," She pulls the sheets of herself, and thankfully her night shirt covers down past her waist—but he gets a full view of her legs.

_Wow_, Steve tries not to just ogle at her, does she have a nice pair of gams.

"You'll have to take the bag with you, or take out the IV." She bites her lip nervously. "Do you think you're ready to do that?"

"What?" Steve asks stupidly, prying his eyes away from them.

"Your IV," Beth's voice wobbles slightly. "Ah…just. Yeah." She wants to fold herself up in the sheets and stop being. Looking at the blood, she feels stable somehow, but still, she feels helpless in how to remove an IV. She thinks of the panic button shoved in her night stand drawer. But one look at Steve, watching him stand haplessly in her room, dark purple circles under his eyes and his hair slightly sticking in all directions, she decides she's safe enough.

She taps the silver bloodbag stand, pushing it slightly towards Steve. "I'll be over here."

Carefully, Steve grasps the stand and pulls it into the bathroom with him. The soft dragging noise it makes along the carpet seems grating in his ears.

* * *

The door to the bathroom doesn't close quickly enough. He hopes he doesn't break the lock to her door, as he _may_ have squeezed it in a bit too hard. Her bathroom is elongated, toilet towards the very back, shower to the far left. There's a silver sink basin, but no windows. His eyes can pick out a pattern swimming through the wallpaper. Some kind of shells from a beach. Dark purples, greens, blues. There are definitely turtles along the sink.

He takes a deep breath, twists the handle to the sink and carefully wets his hand. He doesn't risk splashing himself with water. He doesn't want to feel cold ripples drip from his face. Not when he feels warm.

He brings his hand up, taking a deep breath before he confronts himself in the mirror. It feels like another Steve Rogers is staring back at him. His blue eyes look black in the darkness. His hair is something to be desired—fingers rake through it, pushing it down. He's stunned when he touches the skin on his neck—it _stings_—and he notices the bruising of purple under his eyes. He sighs at himself, brows furrowed in defeat. He doesn't like seeing himself like this. Now Beth has too.

His other hand has the final job. He edges his fingers down his side, hitching around the cotton of his shirt, and lifts up.

He lets out a hiss of wonder at the wound now. It's mostly black and green. The other edges before had swirled outward, like heat had burst through his skin, is back to normal—smooth and pale. He braves touching it, and his fingers flex back—just looking at the darned thing makes it seem a hundred times more painful, but he presses inwards. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, but he couldn't help but test how much he could heal, and even take. Even when he was a kid, wounds were fascinating. But really, it seemed like he just wanted to buckle down to the floor as punishment for everything he's caused.

The silence of the empty bathroom makes Steve think of his own bedroom at the Tower. He imagines Tony pacing through the halls, Clint sharpening an arrow head. His team was probably up right now, just waiting for him.

Fingers prod at his side, and the pain is still strong—but he's able to walk around, and for that, he's grateful. He can only imagine how much his body would've had to heal to get to this level of mobility.

They'd want answers. Steve sighs, leaning his forehead against the mirror. They'd want answers that Steve didn't want to give. Natasha had told him the rough truth: that it was only Thor and her that knew about Beth. Honestly, the soldier had no idea how to salvage his….could he even call it a relationship with Beth? He wanted to do this on his own—but soon…they'd have to find out. They'd probably want to get involved.

Steve's dark blue eyes in the mirror turn even darker, and he shudders back. It's like he's looking at Stark's. God, and what Tony would do to him. He couldn't even imagine. The guy was a paranoid nutcase. True, Steve allowed smartly, that his name-calling was coming from the mouth of a depressed nutcase, but it didn't make either label less true.

And he still detests Stark.

He closes his eyes.

_You can tell me what you want Steve_, Beth had told him. Even in his feverish state, he would never forget that. And what he wanted, if she could somehow see around the cracks in his shield, was Beth Ore. That didn't change. But how to tell her that?

_Delicately, as you help soap your own blood off her arms?_ He can almost hear Tony's sadisms.

Steve nearly shatters his dark reflection in the mirror with the knuckles of his hand, but he forces it to change direction, and he reels back, pressed against the wall.

He couldn't keep running away from this. He was better than this. He'd have to change his plan of action soon. He practiced moving his legs, paced the bathroom all the way back to the door. He could walk. Which meant that he could leave, and begin the repair of his friends.

He slowly craned his neck to look back at the door, so close from his grasp.

He hated doorways. He hated empty rooms. He hated himself. But he had to start somewhere.

* * *

The knob twists after a long while, with Beth trying not to seem like she's been waiting for what's to come from it. He's not even through the door when she speaks.

"I understand if you want to leave," She says quietly.

Her legs are folded neatly under her, and Steve can finally stop his weak attempts to not stare at them. A hand turns her hair, moonlight playing through it, rushing golden, rushing silver. "I…I promise nothing happened. If that's what you're worried about."

Steve feels himself stiffen, halfway out of the bathroom. _Happened?_ His thoughts whisper. _No_, he wants to snap at her_. Everything happened. _Everything_ completely happened—sex would have been the most normal and boring thing that could have happened. It's not nothing._

When his toes touch the soft tendrils of carpet from tile, he can feel Beth's eyes on him, somehow finding him in the darkness, her blue eyes perturbed.

A hand rubs at his throat, then his cheek, self-consciously, and he knows that she's waiting for him to leave. Somehow she knows that he's thinking about leaving, and it's true.

He thinks about the hike back through the chilling snow, the grit of his teeth when his side beats raw with every step. He thinks about leaving her alone in the dark of her apartment and never seeing her again, and that hurts more than being hit with Thor's hammer thirty times over.

He pads back towards her bed, and climbs back across it, debating suffocating himself with a pillow. He stills like this for a second, breathes out, and turns his head to look at her. Her light blue eyes stare hard into him, her mouth slightly open.

"I really thought you were going to leave." she says curtly.

Steve holds his breath for a moment, stretches out across the bed, and accepts that he's going to have to just make do with the fact that he's balled up, but Beth's still kindly as ever.

"No. No, I'm not going to leave." He pretends like he'd never heard of the idea. "Why would you think that?"

Beth's mouth quirks, chewing on the side of her cheek. She leans back into her pillow, and looks carefully at Steve. She doesn't answer, and it makes his ears ache listening to her breathe.

A beat passes, and, unable to stand it any longer, Steve tries again.

"I like your turtles."

This snaps Beth out of her trace. She's looking at him incredulously. "What?"

"In your bathroom," Steve chuckles. "It's very…cute. I have a kinda…this fear of the ocean—" he thumbs at his nose, then thumbs at her bathroom to further his point. "But it's nice in there. Calming, I suppose."

She's very quiet for a second—and then Steve wins a small smile. "Is it silly that all this time I honestly worried you'd hate it?"

"Hate it? Who would ever hate starfish and turtles? A real villain, that's who." Steve nods jokingly, wanting her to smile again. "Folks often gatecrash into your life and make fun of your washroom décor?"

The smile vanishes. She starts picking at the collar of her shirt. The dark tread of a Scottish terrier is chasing itself thin. "You could say that."

Steve fixes the stand above him, fiddling with the IV in the dim light. He gives it a sharp yank and it pops out—he doesn't bleed like he would've years ago from needles. The puncture is gone in seconds. It seems like Beth doesn't notice. Her face is locked in a grimace.

Beth's positive expression is weak on her lips. "How are you feeling?"

Steve shifts back, trying to get comfortable, but really he only becomes more aware of where he is. He could count just how close Beth is to him, the eyes of a stuffed animal in the corner. Pictures that look like landscapes from mythical kingdom eras lining her bedroom walls. The round eastern looking coins taped to her curtains, chiming every so often in the cool, snow sprinkled wind. He finds himself looking at her though, laying so close to him, and he feels warm again. Suddenly, he's yawning, but he manages to cover his mouth, throwing his arm upwards. The force behind his arm is so strong it shakes the bed.

"Like I went three rounds with the Sandman, and I'm pretty sure he won."

Beth smiles into the pillow. "Do you not…sleep very easily?" Her voice sounds guarded. "I know that…well, earlier we talked about our…anxieties but…"

"Yeah," Steve tells the ceiling. "You could say that."

"You told a lot to me…and I want you to know that…" Her hand is inside of his, squeezing. "That I need to also tell you something of mine."

Steve's blue eyes lock desperately with hers, his blush of shame crawling up his neck. "I'm sorry that I bawled to you. That's…I…" He can't even begin. It's just one of so many things he can't even begin to explain to her.

Beth slides closer to him, resting her head slowly on his shoulder. Steve knows that turning just an inch more would touch his nose to her cheek. Their hands are still intertwined.

"I really do understand. Well, about the breakdown I mean. Plus, you were sick." She reaches up a hand and lays it along his forehead. It's still faintly hot. "Well, you still might be. I just wanted to do anything to help you."

Steve feels his eyes shut on their own, safe under her fingers. For a moment, they're just breathing together, but Beth's eyes widen slightly. She touches the crown of his golden hair, and Beth feels like she's seen him somewhere before. Hiding his face feels like she's lifting back some other image in the back of her mind that she just can't…picture. But it's over too soon, as she can't test him for a fever forever, and she slides her hand away, lingering over the stubble of his jaw.

"I was…I'm trying," She laughs at herself, but it sounds empty. "To use that as a lead way to…to tell you…"

Her free hand closes itself into a fist, and she fiercely hits the mattress—it's so unexpected that Steve forces himself to stay still. His heart collides with his battered rip cage.

"God, why can't I just say it to you?" She's sitting up, hands through her long strands of hair. She makes a sound of anguish in the back of her throat, and then curls back down into Steve's undamaged side.

Steve swallows thickly, one hand still somehow fitted to hold her so close to his chest that he can feel her breathe out, the puppies on her shirt nuzzling against the swelling red of his stomach, his side. "Gee, I…I wouldn't know what to say to help that, really."

She breathes out slowly against him, and her hair feels like velvet along his collarbone. Her lips are so close to his skin, it's like her breathing is a imploding star casting out, and he's catching the remains of their shock waves, forever a sign that this is real. He's not dreaming. "I don't want to tell you this, but I feel like I've gotta say it now, or it's gonna eat me alive."

Another pause. Beth swallows dryly.

"Have you ever done something you regret? That…that possibly hurt someone else?"

The air seems too still, breathing seems so insignificant as he thinks. For a single second, he thinks he's going to tell her about being Captain America. He'd tell her everything—he nearly did hours ago, when the entire sky seemed to be pressing down towards a crystallized point on the back of his skull that magnified every memory he had of home. Closing his eyes still brings back the scent of sickness that's swirling around them. There's a coil of tubes leading from his pale wrist to a scarlet bag floating above them, broken and strained. His side still pulses in minor explosions of pain. It all seems so eerily familiar to the last time he understood what home felt like.

"My mother," Steve began softly, tongue sticky and dry against the hard faults in his teeth. "She died of tuberculosis when I was sixteen. She was a nurse in a TB ward, but I took care of her during the worse of it at home, because we couldn't afford much a hospital bill. But I went without realising that once I was exposed to it for such a long time, I would have to be quarantined. I didn't care about that then, though. She passed too slowly. She had such a will to not die. She…refused. She refused until the end, and I had to watch the light fade from her eyes. It seemed like I turned around once, and I was thrown into quarantine. It was lonesome in there, so the staff allowed me to take other things I had touched inside with me. Books, mainly. My father's— Aesop's Fables kinda of a deal."

He took a breath that unfolded in the quiet of the room, loud like the inhale of a monster, sitting between them, glowering, claws tapping along bathroom tiles, dragging itself over the sheets, tearing them open.

"Anyway, when I was declared a decent bill of health, which didn't happen often, mind you, I walked out that white-walled door and they started ripping the clothes right off my back. I was so frustrated that nearly decked the doctor, but I was overpowered pretty easily." He swallowed, sweat on his fingertips. He'd never told anyone this secret before. "It was then I was told that they had to burn everything."

Beth leaned against his chest, hands still between them. She whispered something, but Steve didn't care to hear it. He just kept going. "I had to watch my father's books burn." He paused. "Something about watchin' those pages turn to black ashes created something bitter inside of me. I was given new clothes, and sent home with orders to do the same to anything inside the house that was contaminated."

Beth felt the sheets swirl inside of his palm, fingers crushing the delicate emptiness with so much strength she was sure there were holes.

"I couldn't go through with it." Steve finally admitted, and it felt like a needle had been stabbed through his tongue with the way the words actually hurt to say. "I didn't burn anything. I didn't burn her threadwork, her jewelry, or her photographs. She'd clung tightly to this picture of my father before she passed and when I saw that still laying on her bed; I knew I couldn't do it."

Steve's eyes narrowed at the shadows looming above.

"I hid them so well, Bucky didn't even know. I just lied through my teeth and walked around for months pretending like I wasn't carrying a sickness that had killed, not just my mother, but thousands of people. And I worried constantly that I might've passed on the illness to anyone I came into contact with." He sighed slowly. "It's been years and years, but I still think about that from time to time."

Beth lay so perfectly still beside him that it made Steve wonder if his longwinded confession had put her back to sleep. But suddenly she reached for his hand over the waves of the fabric, curled around the fist he had made. He eased open his hand, blinking at the ceiling in shock. He had no idea he'd even done that.

"Oh my god," She whispers simply. Her blue eyes are shiny in the moonlight. She tries to digest it all quickly. "Steve. I…wish I knew what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Steve cuts in quickly, shaking his head back and forth along the pillow. "I've…never told anyone that before." The phase feels tight, every letter attached to strings supporting his sanity from the ceiling. "It just means a lot to have someone listening."

A finger traces the cracks on the back of his hand. "Were you close with your mom?"

All of this talking makes Steve feel exhausted. He hasn't spoken about her in years.

"She was a wonderful woman. She certainly was tough. I think she taught me to always be mindful of others, and to not complain so much when it seemed like we didn't have enough."

"Enough?"

Steve shifts, realising how he's getting a close shave to the details. No wonder she'd pick at the word. Enough. Like wondering if you'd have enough food for dinner that night, or if you're walking a few miles to find a free meal being served in a crowd of fly-bitten sales men. The books he'd read at the public library called it _The Great Depression_. He can't just up and say he'd lived during it. He pulled for another reason.

"My folks, they were conscious about giving more than having things. I just learned quickly that I had to be grateful for what I had. Who I knew. It's like I said, she was a nurse, so she had a lot of care to give to other people."

"And what did your dad do?"

"He died a soldier's death. It's partially the reason I joined the army. He was such an inspiration to me." Steve's voice grew softer, raspier. "I think he knew I'd be someone strong one day. He just kept telling me to keep my chin up about how hard people would treat me. About bullies. He was the strong, silent type, but he always spoke with reason. He saw reason in me when most people saw weakness." A sigh. "But I think he was also a little disappointed me as well."

"Why would he be disappointed in you?" Beth whispers, her breath warm along his face.

"I think he wanted me to be happy with who I was, and not who I strived to be."

Beth's breathing is soothing in his ear, and he fought not to yawn again. He tried to market it off as a chuckle. "Look'it me, flapping my gums. Weren't you going to say something about yourself?"

Beth flushed hard, her cheeks burning. "Yeah…I was getting to that."

"Mm?" Steve loved her smell. It smelled rather earthy now, like rainfall.

She sighed, hard, and squeezed his hand again. "Well, you mentioned that you couldn't sleep. And I have that same problem. But I…hurt people, sometimes. I'd go out with guys, not because I really wanted to date them, but because I was so scared to be alone at night. I'd even invite them in and—" Her voice wavered. "And…yeah, they'd make fun of my bathroom. They didn't understand what it…it meant for me. And how could they, when I didn't care to understand what they wanted." She then stifled a sad giggle. "Well, I _knew_ what they wanted—but still, I didn't care because having someone there was better than having night terrors."

Steve felt his face burning at her admission. Him not saying anything was murder on her conscience.

"But I stopped. Ronda. She…she finally, _finally _talked some sense into me. And I just…backed off entirely. I knew that I'd have to work on myself. And that's what I've been doing. For months now. Slowly…yeah."

"I just wanted to say that you're the first guy I'd met that makes me think outside of my own selfish self and I never, _ever _want to treat you like those other guys. And…I hope you can know this, and possibly start to believe me when I say that…I feel like I've known you for a long time. And I'm sorry that you've found me in such a terrible state. It's one thing to use your body as you want. It's…another when you just hurt people and bang up their emotions and not care because you feel safe for one more day. And that's what I did."

"Beth," Steve tried not to let his mouth hang open. A thousand emotions floods his dulling senses—but one that was very clear is his revulsion, thinned out through his veins for what she did to try to fix herself. Sure, it made his throat feel like he was swallowing cotton to think that she'd curled up to some Joe for sleep, disdain like spoilt coffee on the roof of his mouth but…she wasn't perfect. He has to take that down with sugar or salt.

She was broken, too. She wasn't here to just fix him. If he could be fixed.

If either of them could ever be "fixed" at all.

It took a minute to consider, but Steve is the one that squeezes her hand back. He doesn't say a word. For a while, they lay like this, until Beth feels the need to fill the silence.

"Thank you for telling me this, Steve. It means a lot to me. I hope it…means a lot to you."

When he doesn't respond, Beth has to strain to see why. She can only make out the outline of him—his head is propped against her shoulder, his face completely relaxed. He's fast asleep.

* * *

When morning finally struck, Steve found himself being toured around Beth's small apartment, and it began a little something like this:

"This is not how I pictured getting to see your bedroom," Steve comments thoughtlessly, glancing around at the shelves of books, and knit-knacks. There's a picture of a mosaic style sunflower hanging in the hall, filled in with different fingerprints dyed orange and yellow in sticky, shiny looking metallic paint.

"You pictured seeing my bedroom?" Beth tries not to laugh, feeling the tips of her ears burning red.

Steve snapped back, his eyes wide in realisation. "No—No, that…that didn't come out right."

"Relax!" Beth tries to hide her own embarrassment. "It's wild enough that you're even here right now." Suddenly a different kind of interest sparks behind her blue eyes. "Would you…care to see my humble living space?"

Steve's up at the idea of moving around. He's still sort've groggy, but he'll always take moving over rest.

The living room connects all the rooms together—bedroom, one bathroom, kitchen. There's a hallway towards the back that leads to her bedroom, one door to her bathroom, another side door back out into the living room.

The living room itself is square in design. There's a loveseat that basically makes up the couch—black and a little beat up. A coffee table is pulled in front, resting at the couch's feet. She has a flat screen television that reminds Steve of Stark's Tower, and not in a very fun way. An armchair is flipped so that it is facing the front wooden door for some reason. He also spots a bookshelf, broad in the corner, filled with titles he's never heard of. They all seem very classical—or medical. Something about minds. But there's also a title about kittens in hats, so he assumes he wouldn't be completely clueless.

It's in the kitchen that Steve finds himself bombard by how famished he is. It's painted a dark green, with purple finishes along the cabinets. A refrigerator stands stolidity to the left. Across the kitchen's small table, Steve takes notice of the glossy shimmer of a magazine pile stacked up high. He ganders the cover, disregarding, before a pair of dark eyes steel him into place.

Stark. _Tony Stark_ is looking up at him from the cover of magazine called _GQ. _His dark brown eyes are poised for the flash of a camera. He's dressed handsomely to the nines in a black leather jacket, under coat button up, silver tie, facial hair trimmed like it's always perfect—not red from nicks, or his eyes brunt out from lack of sleep or Lord knows what else. Steve sees words like: _dashing_, _sexiest man alive_, and _womanizer _slapped all over the space around the billionaire. Steve's face is frozen in dislike—when Beth turns back towards him, her face is equally alarmed. She spots where his eyes are sewn and tries to play it cool.

"Not a fan of Mister Stark, I see?"

Steve looks at her blankly, his stomach churning. "Are _you?"_

Beth tries not to laugh at the loathing in his voice. "I mean, he helped save the city, so I can't say he isn't a hero. He seems really funny in his interviews. And, like, his assistant, Virginia Potts? She helps give to local artists and charities around town—and she's seems like a good person. And she likes him, so." She gives a small shrug. "How bad could he be?"

Steve resists smacking his head on the table, or tossing Tony's smug expression out the front door. He recognizes that tie now. It's the one Tony had gave him, now hanging in his closet. The one he wore on his date with Beth.

"I suppose so," Steve says with plenty of grit. "You like reading about him?"

"Sure. Those are Ronda's though. Er…the one...that…"

"Tased me," Steve finishes awkwardly, "I recall."

Beth begins to say something else, but suddenly she turns again, her face panicked. "Hold on—gonna need to call her—" Her voice is muffled by the walls.

Steve bides his time by flipping through the magazines—trying to pretend that he's burning up the ink with his eyes, disgusted. If only the public really understood who Tony Stark really was. Beth's soon back with a clothy purple jacket over one arm.

Steve seriously can't let it go. "And your friend, Ronda, right? She really likes Stark, huh?"

"Oh yes," Beth finds herself grinning at the thought of mean-bean Ronda actually feeling romantic for once. "It's a little much sometimes. I'm pretty sure she'd have a shrine to him, if she could."

"And how," Steve mumbles, pushing the dark eyed, calculating stare of Tony away from him.

Beth's brows furrow carefully, as if she's waiting for more. Steve looks up at her questioningly.

"…and how, what?" Beth finally asks, her head tilted endearingly.

Steve blinks, trying not to blush. "Oh—no, I meant there was nothing more to say—I was just agreeing with you."

Beth's soft pink smirk is back again, just like when they shared popcorn together. "Right! I knew that, of course." The laughter in her voice makes Steve feel as if she's laughing with him, and hopefully not at him, like Clint and Tony have.

"Well…I gave Ronda a call, and she apparently got up this morning and took my shift that I was going to work." Beth grimaces again. "But I figure..if I'm gonna be here with you, I guess we should do something for breakfast, right?"

_Food, right_, _what normal folks thought about in the morning._ Steve tries to focus. "Sure. Are we eating here?"

"Well," Beth plays nervously with the edge of her cardigan. "I…really don't cook that well. I'm trying to learn, but ah…" She looked at her bare cabinets. "I suppose I haven't been thinking about guests much lately."

"Hm," Steve hummed at her, trying not to pass judgment. In the 30's, it just seemed like a thing that nearly everyone knew how to do—sure, the gal usually did the deed, but bringing some type of scrap to the table; They didn't have much during the Depression—but you made do with that, too. "I could look around. I bet I could make something."

Beth couldn't contain the look of surprise that lit up her face. "You cook?"

"It's not very good stuff. But, I see that you have the basics. Flour, some sugar, eggs. I could make pancakes, probably."

"Actually, that bag up there could be a thing of rat poison." Beth says with finality, nervous to have Steve poking around her kitchen and see the horror that was her surviving off of Pop Tarts and Diet Coke. "I'm betting on McDonalds. Besides. Ronda…well, she wants to see us. It's not exactly an option, considering what's happened. And um."

Steve's blue eyes are on her steadily, a touch apprehensive. "Yes?"

"Well, your clothes…it's sort've our fault about what happened. Do you want to go…shopping? I was going to get you a new shirt. One um, not covered in blood?"

"I…" He glances at his shirt, one side stained black, then at his phone, debating. "If I can call Natasha first. She'll be worried, I'm sure. But…yeah. Honestly, I'm not one for shopping. But I like being with you."

Beth's laugh is gentle, her smile delighted. "My friend mad at me, your friends upset with you. It's going to be an interesting day from all sides, I'm sure."

* * *

"What's your middle name?  
Do you hate your job? Do you fall in love too easily?  
What's your favorite word? Do you like kissin'?  
You make me so nervous when you look at me.  
She says that "People stare because we look so good together."

My love, My love, my love,  
She keeps me warm.  
She keeps me warm.

Love is patient. Love is kind.  
Love is patient. Love is kind.  
Love is patient. Love is kind."

Mary Lambert- '_She Keeps Me Warm'_

* * *

**AN:** Beth has crazy premonition, because what happens next is going to be so much fun, I can't even being with tell you guys. So I won't. ;) Looks like Steve gets to meet Ronda. As, er, Ronda's already met Steve. That'll be…something. And the rest of the Avengers getting involved? Oh God. Poor…poor everyone. Things are about to get slightly hilarious. Except be warned for darkness. Not everyone is happy about Steve's new gal.  
also, it's so much fun to have throw back to older chapters and just tiny jokes that I think are hilarious and just how.

Oh, and by the by, I often worry about packing my chapters full of actions, less I lose some folks. But I personally gotta say that I love the hell outta domestic stuff as well as action. I hope you all can understand about the development and such. I Promise there's tons more actions and adventure, but, ah, thank you for enjoying, even if it's slow? Ahhh. *Gives hugs to everyone*


End file.
